(no subject)
After a series of vague telegrams, Holmes thinks he a dinner engagement with Mycroft tonight. With Mycroft and Watson. Neither Mycroft nor Holmes ever really expressed specific interest in dining together, and Holmes didn't expressly accept, but that's just how he and Mycroft tend to do things like this. Holmes especially is never quite sure how to handle this idea of being affectionate or friendly with his brother. Mycroft intimidates him, both with his superior powers of observation and with the simple fact that Holmes has come to Mycroft, needing help to clean up the mess he'd made of his life.
Holmes has been nervous all day, to say the least, and couldn't bother to get out of his dressing gown. He picked over his breakfast and luncheon, mindful of needing an appetite for dinner, at least a little one, to contrast with his brother's.
The hour's approaching, however, that he must start to get dressed in the kind of clothing more appropriate for dinner in Mycroft's club. He'd already told Mrs. Hudson, shortly after lunch, that he and Watson wouldn't be needing dinner that evening. She was a little perturbed at the late notice, but Holmes figures she won't be nearly as put out as Watson will be once Holmes gets around to telling him.
He gets up without a word and slips into his room to change and rearrange his appearance, running a comb through his hair and situating it appropriately. He comes out of his room adjusting his cufflinks, and he raises his eyebrows expectantly at Watson. Part of him is aware that this is absurdly last minute to tell Watson, but his nerves have so far prevented him from saying anything, to be honest. Belaying telling Watson almost allowed Holmes to believe he could somehow get out of this uncomfortably tense evening.
"Well?" he asks, stopping to finish adjusting his cuffs. "Aren't you going to get ready?"
Holmes has been nervous all day, to say the least, and couldn't bother to get out of his dressing gown. He picked over his breakfast and luncheon, mindful of needing an appetite for dinner, at least a little one, to contrast with his brother's.
The hour's approaching, however, that he must start to get dressed in the kind of clothing more appropriate for dinner in Mycroft's club. He'd already told Mrs. Hudson, shortly after lunch, that he and Watson wouldn't be needing dinner that evening. She was a little perturbed at the late notice, but Holmes figures she won't be nearly as put out as Watson will be once Holmes gets around to telling him.
He gets up without a word and slips into his room to change and rearrange his appearance, running a comb through his hair and situating it appropriately. He comes out of his room adjusting his cufflinks, and he raises his eyebrows expectantly at Watson. Part of him is aware that this is absurdly last minute to tell Watson, but his nerves have so far prevented him from saying anything, to be honest. Belaying telling Watson almost allowed Holmes to believe he could somehow get out of this uncomfortably tense evening.
"Well?" he asks, stopping to finish adjusting his cuffs. "Aren't you going to get ready?"