A Thousand Codes

[consulting_det]

Who: Sherlock and John.
When: Sherlock is being haughty and childish a few days after the second Ripper victim was found.

Click-click-click-click.  Gladstone's nails were clicking on the wood flooring from following Sherlock around in his pacing.  Kitchen to front door.  Back again.  Forth again.  Back--  Sherlock had been pacing for three hours

Comments

[hisdearblogger]

The meeting and talk with Mary had gone about as well as could be expected; John told Mary he had slept with someone else and she punched him and threw him out of her flat. John did not raise a hand back nor did he try to stay when she told him to leave. He felt he had deserved as much for betraying her trust and accepted that their relationship was over.

That didn't mean that it didn't sting a bit. Because it did. So much so that when he got back to the flat at Baker Street he not only didn't say anything to Sherlock but went directly to the kitchen and got out the rum he had stashed away in one of the lower cabinets that was reserved strictly for bad, bad days. John felt this counted as such - he didn't really want to remember this day. Not after the look on Mary's face after he had told her.

He took a drink of the rum before moving to make an ice pack for his face. She had quite the right hook on her - John hadn't seen that one coming.

[consulting_det]

"I'll take one too," Sherlock said abruptly, leaning against the wall. He didn't need liquor. He had four patches on his arm -- a bad sign -- and his mind was still having difficulty functioning.

Alcohol would ruin his concentration all together, but he was feeling childish and left out. John would simply have to deal with that.

[hisdearblogger]

John arched a brow at the other man but said nothing as he got another glass and set it on the table. He poured himself a glass and then set the bottle back down, one hand holding the ice pack to one side of his face.

"You can pour your own." And downed half of his own glass.

[consulting_det]

Sherlock did just that, carefully measuring out three fifths into the tumbler as he sat opposite of John. He couldn't stop himself from staring at John, at the bruise peeking out restlessly behind the ice. He wanted to feel the heat of it, the pooling of blood from beneath the skin. For once, he kept all deductions to himself. John knew that he knew exactly what had happened.