ironmonger | (no subject)

It's far more convincing a show than the other Sherlock had managed to put on; when he chuckles low in his throat in response to that laugh, it isn't just because he knows Sherlock expects him to.

(The other Sherlock was relying on guesswork and his knowledge of Tony. This one has seen them together. There is no contest.)

With a happy little murmur, he slides his hands up to Obadiah's face, fingertips scratching through his beard.

He pauses - just a little, maybe half a beat - then kisses Sherlock more firmly to distract him. (Even though he should know better than to think that would work.)

It would on Tony, though. He sighs happily and doesn't pursue it, gives no sign he even noticed, just matches the escalation with obvious delight.

(And how far does he intend to take this, exactly?)

Obadiah is beginning to wonder that himself.

He can keep wondering a little longer.

While may-as-well-be-Tony kisses him.

He is interested to find out where this is going to go.

He offers no objection.

(But—and this is the important question—is he still treating this like kissing Tony?

There is no right or wrong answer, but getting an answer is imperative.)

(Almost.

But not quite. He's been jolted out of it.)

Fascinating.

The only thing to do is keep it up.

Still warm, still close, still loving. Somewhere inside, Sherlock is smiling, but on the surface and for several layers under that there is just Tony, who is smiling in a very different way.

Obadiah's performance begins to lose focus; he's still kissing with attention and skill, but it's losing depth. It's becoming a surface show, with other things entirely going on underneath it.

Is that supposed to be a bad thing? Because it's really not. It is actually the opposite of bad.

On this end, of course, the show (if you can even call it that) is effortless.

He's wondering where Sherlock intends to go with this, how long it will take to get there, what he's going to do with whatever he gets out of it -

In short, he's doing a lot of thinking (and a certain amount of not thinking). He has a lot of experience in covering that convincingly; maybe Tony would still be fooled. (He doesn't zone out like this with Tony.)

No idea, no idea, and no idea. Playing Tony does require a certain amount of cutting loose and letting the less conscious parts of your brain do your thinking for you.

Tony would not still be fooled, and at the exact moment when Tony would stop being fooled, he pulls back and murmurs, "You think too much."

He does smile a bit in spite of himself, because he's heard that from Tony so many times.

"Maybe you should do something about that," he suggests.

"Okay," he says brightly, and the next kiss is much more—involved.

Interesting.

He pulls his focus more firmly back to the kiss, letting his hands stroke down over Sherlock's ass and around to his hips.

The way he wriggles just slightly is perfectly Tony. So is the way he laughs softly into the kiss and presses closer, needing to touch, to feel the warmth of human contact.

The small break in the kiss was exactly what he needed to regain his focus. He concentrates more intently on Sherlock now, hands firm on his hips. He likes holding Tony there when they kiss, and he likes it even more now that they've given it a new association.

He's more than happy to let the memory rise, occupying more of his attention and putting space between him and his constant awareness that this is not Tony.

When he—feels, more than sees—where this new focus comes from, he smiles. The smile is Tony's but the laughter behind it comes from somewhere else. And his kisses stay sweet, but there is an edge to the sweetness, like a vein of pure cinnamon running through your apple pie. Exactly the way Tony would kiss with that memory running through his mind: soft and warm and happy and reminiscent and wanting.

His hands tighten a little on Sherlock's hips as he takes the chance to really, thoroughly savor the memory in a way he hasn't had much of a chance to do since he went home the morning after.

It's... beautiful.

(He knows Tony would think so too, and he knows how Tony would think it, and he is not thinking it in quite the same way. But when he hums softly and melts a little under Obadiah's touch, clinging to his shoulders, the enjoyment that shows is all Tony's and none of his own.)

Obadiah kisses him more intently now, and it's getting easier to pretend that he even tastes like Tony.

And it's slightly disappointing to know that, beneath the layers of clothing under his fingers, he wouldn't find Tony's bruises there.

No. Sherlock's bruises, Sherlock's scars.

He doesn't drink like Tony drinks, and he smokes occasionally, and both those things are evident if you are paying enough attention.

The way he moves, though, the way he kisses, the way his eyelashes flutter, even the way he breathes—Tony. Tony all through.

His hands slide back around to Sherlock's back, tugging him a little closer.