ironmonger | (no subject)

Obadiah smiles blandly.

"It should be interesting."

"I would ask you to tell me how it goes, but then of course you wouldn't."

He chuckles.

"Oh, I might."

Depending, of course, on how it goes.

"Oh, by all means," he says, waving a hand invitingly. "Feel free to gloat."

"I will."

He looks forward to it.

He settles back a little in his seat.

(The bruises have almost faded from his neck. Such a pity, isn't it?)

(It is. They were such a good look on him.)

Obadiah picks up the drink he's been mostly neglecting in favor of his dinner. (Bar's insistence that he eat turned out to be right on the money.)

"He's also figured out that I've got an extra Tony stashed somewhere. Watching him try to figure out where is going to be very entertaining."

"...You are a cruel man, Obadiah."

But he's laughing, and he says it with admiration.

Obadiah grins.

"I have to get my fun from somewhere."

"This has become apparent to me," he says, grinning back.

"He tried to trip me up by playing Tony and kissing me," Obadiah remarks. "It was very cute. A little insulting, since the entire point of his being there was that Tony couldn't, but cute. I'm looking forward to his trying it as himself."

He sips his drink.

"Once he figures out that Tony's not the only extra I've got stashed away."

"I am sure he wasn't looking to fool you in any conscious sense," Sherlock muses. "I'd hate to think any of me could be that far out of touch."

He straightens his collar, a quick, unobtrusive, absent-looking movement.

"Did he ask you any pointed questions directly afterward?"

Obadiah's gaze lingers for a moment at Sherlock's neck while he answers.

"He asked whether the other Tony loved me, and I said he did, which he seemed to approve of."

He looks thoughtful, eyes moving back up to meet Sherlock's.

"Which wasn't really the reaction I was expecting. I was waiting for something more along the lines of accusing me of taking advantage of Tony's affections. The two of you are different in some ways, of course, but I didn't think you'd be that different."

"I can be a suspicious bastard on occasion," he says, touching the scars that are now rather less hidden by his shirt than they were a moment ago.

"That's certainly one difference," Obadiah murmurs, watching the gesture. "But he's not my biggest fan any more than you are. In fact, he likes me much less."

"I am a complicated suspicious bastard," he avows. "And I also happen to know that the first time Tony fucked you it was at least in part so you would not go home and murder him for a few more hours. I expect it would put a different cast on things if the other Sherlock were aware of that."

The reason, the crucial difference in this case, is obvious to him and has little to do with Tony. But he is not even going to think it very loudly. There are some things he simply cannot betray.

"He put on a very convincing show of enjoying himself, then," Obadiah says, just a little dry. "But I suppose you're right."

Still, though. That doesn't fit quite as neatly as it could.

"Tony is frankly incapable of putting on that sort of show. He would not have done it if he hadn't wanted to. Nevertheless, the circumstances were not entirely innocent. I am happy to observe that this is no longer the case. He really does love you. As such," he shrugs, "you may have noticed I am no longer troubling you over it."

"I did pick up on that at around the time you showed up with a gun you didn't intend to shoot me with," Obadiah agrees.

"Quite. I trust you enjoyed yourself with it?"

Oh lord, he still doesn't know.

"Immensely," he says, eyes darkening a little with the memory. "I'm glad Tony requested it."

"So is he. So am I, for that matter."

There's something about the way Tony curled up with his head in Sherlock's lap and sniffled a little and didn't say anything for hours, just smiled.

And he has to admit he also gets something out of watching Obadiah fail to put the pieces together. He will eventually, of course. And Sherlock will absolutely refrain from gloating, or holding it over him, or any similar activity.

Will such restraint on Sherlock's part occur before or after pigs fly and hell freezes over?

"Mm. How was he after I left?"

He shrugs.

"Well-fucked and in love," he summarizes.

He laughs.

"Good."

He worked very hard to ensure that that would be the case.