ironmonger | (no subject)

"That is a vile little fixation you have," Obadiah observes mildly. "Exactly how much time do you spend on it?"

(As to the first question, well, Sherlock is answering it quite handily himself. Why shouldn't Obadiah bait someone who seems to be in the mood to rise to it?)

He shakes his head.

"Don't," he advises. "You annoy me enough already without adding in another futile effort to dodge obvious truths."

"Really," Obadiah says, sipping from his glass. "I never would have guessed."

"I am excruciatingly tempted to murder you right now."

"Yes, that's new and different," Obadiah remarks.

He sets his glass down on the Bar.

"Was there something you needed?"

"Yes," he says. "I need to speak with you somewhere less likely to disturb the innocent ears of passersby. Or has it not occurred to you to wonder what will happen when Tony finds out?"

"Another round of correcting misapprehensions he's picked up from you, I would imagine," he says evenly.

Sherlock reaches out again and traces a short line along Obadiah's sleeve, following the trail of the scratch underneath.

"I am not planning to volunteer the information, but if he ever suspects, I will be the second person he asks, and I will tell him the entire truth as it is apparent to me."

Obadiah smiles, slow and lazy, glancing briefly toward Sherlock's fingers against his sleeve.

"Someday," he murmurs, "you'll give me a little credit for being able to cover my tracks."

"Oh, no." He gives the scars on Obadiah's neck a deliberate glance as he removes his hand. "I know exactly how well you can cover your tracks." His eyes flick down to Obadiah's arms as though he can see through the fabric of his shirt to what it conceals. "Do you? And are you very sure you will never slip up? If I were you, I would not call it worth the risk."

"I've somehow managed to keep from falling on my face since long before you came along."

Obadiah picks up his drink and finishes it off.

"I'm not sure why you're so anxious to have this conversation, anyway. I thought we'd established to your satisfaction that Tony is safe with me. Is that not good enough anymore?"

"This conversation is not about Tony's safety," Sherlock says flatly, "because I know you are not going to rape him."

...wow what a moment to pass within earshot.

Obadiah starts to answer, but then someone catches his eye and it turns into a chuckle.

"Evening, Tony," he says easily.

"Okay, one: Sherry that is not okay. Two, Obie, this is not the time to be a smug asshole."

Tony is pissed off and more than a little disturbed.

He's also blushing.

Damn.

Sherlock looks away and says nothing—but he doesn't look away far enough to stop him watching the both of them. It is too much to hope for that Obadiah won't notice what just happened, but perhaps he will have the sense not to pursue it.

Obadiah schools his face into a more appropriately serious expression, looking at Tony thoughtfully as he speaks.

"Of course not," he says. "I'm sorry, Tony. The timing just struck me as funny, that's all."

He snorts.

"Sherry, shut up," he says, but he's still glaring at Obadiah.

It is a very complicated glare. Part afraid, part upset, part something else he'd rather not think about too closely... but more angry than any of the rest.

Obadiah's expression doesn't flicker.

"I'm sorry," he repeats patiently, holding Tony's gaze.

Abruptly: "Ever thought about it?"

Obadiah's eyebrows go up.

"You are perfectly safe with me," he says, then,

"Maybe we should discuss this somewhere a little quieter."

"And maybe you should answer my question," he says, not backing down.

Obadiah gives him a fond look.

"Maybe," he says with slightly more emphasis, "we should discuss this somewhere a little quieter."

Do you get it now, Tony?

"...Fine. My room. Sherry, you coming?"