(Untitled)

[if_inconvenient]

There's a Stark boy sprawled on the couch at Milliways. Black leather jacket, blue jeans-these are indeterminate signs. The white button-down shirt with the top button undone says Sherlock; the nearly empty glass of whiskey on the table next to him says Tony

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[be_this_naive]

The bruise from Howard's beer bottle went deep - it's still darker in color than it should be a week after the fact, and was sore as hell for the first couple of days. It's easily hidden under the sleeve of his shirt, though; once the ache faded, Obadiah stopped giving it much thought.

He's pleased to find Milliways on the other side of his office door. This visit, he decides, is going to go a little better than the last one did.

[if_inconvenient]

Oh.

Lovely.

Sherlock considers ignoring him, but the thought of being mistaken for Tony by this man is intolerable, however brief the confusion would be. So he abandons his drink at the couch and crosses the room without any particular effort at stealth to inspect Obadiah for subtler signs of his latest venture's outcome. The newly healed bites are obvious enough: it happened and he survived it. And his conspirator was quite enthusiastic about draining him slowly over the course of three or four days while he awaited rescue.

[be_this_naive]

He pauses at the Bar to order a drink before turning to survey the room.

- Ah. Well, he's gradually getting closer to who he really wants to see, if one thinks in terms of generations.

"Sherlock," he says pleasantly.

[if_inconvenient]

His scrutiny is brief but intense, although not quite to the degree it was with Tony.

More statement than question by far: "Worked, did it?"