ironmonger | (no subject)

"Oh, yes. And in just the same way. Although, I am sorry to report, in my case the 'in love' part is probably unattainable."

"We all have to make sacrifices," Obadiah observes.

He's fairly certain he can live without Sherlock's devotion.

"I seem to recall you being quite good about the rest, however."

"You did seem reasonably satisfied with the whole endeavor," Obadiah says. "It clearly suited you."

As did the marks it left.

"You just like the look of me with your handprints around my neck," he says, rather affectionately.

"Why wouldn't I?" Obadiah asks. "You wear them very well."

"I do," he acknowledges.

Obadiah sips his drink.

"Seems a shame to let them disappear."

Sherlock runs his thumb across them. He has a perfect memory for the exact location of every fingerprint, even the ones that have faded almost completely.

"Would you like to go upstairs and give the other Sherlock something to think about?"

Obadiah puts down his drink.

"I believe I would."

—He looks up, past Obadiah—

—at a somewhat aggrieved Tony.

"Guys! Do you not remember what I said the last time?"

- the Starks, Obadiah recalls, have always had issues with timing.

Still, he can't bring himself to be that upset about it. He hasn't had much time in the interim to dwell on his last encounter with Tony, but time he has had has been suffused with anticipation of their next meeting and what marks will have come into full flower on Tony's skin.

He turns to look, saying distractedly,

"That it's not funny when Sherlock accuses me of being a rapist?"

"...okay," he agrees, leaning around the back of the armchair to kiss Obie's cheek, "I did say that. But if you guys go up to anybody's room, I'm coming with."

Not, you understand, that he expects this to necessarily be a deterrent.

He just expects that if he's there, Sherlock won't come out of it smelling like fruit brandy and unquenchable grief.

(There are, indeed, plenty of marks.

Although most of them aren't in places that show with his clothes on.)

(Still, he glances at Tony's throat and his wrists, and refuses to let himself think of the rope abrasions on his Tony's wrists. Those are very different and he won't allow the connection in his mind.)

"I could probably live with that," he murmurs, still leaning back to look up at Tony.

Bruises. Bruises twice. Not very deep, mind you, but very... definite.

"Good," he says cheerfully, half-perching on the arm of the chair and resting his hand on Obie's shoulder.

"And I believe you two have something to talk about, at that," Sherlock notes. "Several things."

He wears them, in Obadiah's considered opinion, even better than Sherlock does. Obadiah carefully reminds himself that they are trying to be discreet downstairs. It would be just like Milliways to arrange for Howard to come around the corner at the same moment Obadiah pulled his son down for a kiss.

"Mm. That we do."

Tony makes a face that is full of question marks.

"There have been a few difficulties with my Tony in the past few days," Obadiah tells him. "I considered locking him up for his own protection, and Sherlock suggested that I discuss that with you."

"...Sherry, you're an asshole," he says with great fondness.

But the more important part is: "What happened to other-me?"

"He was kidnapped," Obadiah says. "Don't worry, we got him back. He's fine."

More or less.

"...Fine as in actually fine or fine as in it doesn't show until you count the empty bottles?"

"Fine as in all in one piece and not dead," Obadiah says. "The rest of it . . ."

He shrugs slightly.

"We're dealing with it. I'm staying at their house tonight and probably for the next few days."

"Yeah. Good. —Except that Sherry probably hates you, so less good."

He sighs, wistfully contemplating what it might be like if everything wasn't so complicated, and slides into Obie's lap to give him a hug. Because sometimes you just have to.