ironmonger | (no subject)

Drowsily: "On the contrary, there are only three of you."

That is a very specific number.

"Three of us," he repeats, not quite a question.

"You, Tony, a hopeless failed romance," he says, lifting one hand in a gesture of dismissal as though the third item in that list is of no consequence in comparison to the first two. "The sum total of the people I would willingly fuck."

(It is not quite a lie. He curses himself for letting down his guard like this, but his acting is flawless as always; he creates, for the moment, a Sherlock who really doesn't care. Because that is the only way to keep Obadiah from looking any further.)

"Watson didn't work out?" he asks idly. "Shame."

Interesting, the differences one change can make. He doesn't recall ever seeing anyone other than Tony (and now himself) have a prolonged positive interaction with his Sherlock.

Indifferently: "Alas, no."

—A thought strikes; he laughs.

"Although come to think of it, if Peter Beardsley offered I might not refuse him. Three and a half, then."

The name doesn't ring a bell, mainly because Obadiah hasn't yet looked at any of the applications to replace Hayward. He just this morning let it be known that he was looking; he's going to check when he gets back.

"I don't believe I know him," he says. "Here or at home?"

"Home. We have what you might call a friendly antagonism. He is one of the few people who pay enough attention to realize the extent of my competence, which rather endears him to me. That or I have a weakness for ruthless, unsentimental older men."

He chuckles.

"Either or."

"Indeed."

All this hair-petting seems to be having a soporific effect; discussing Peter Beardsley's virtues is the most animation Sherlock has shown since the gigglefit that landed him here.

Perhaps he's dropped his guard a little. Now might be a good time to ask any particularly sensitive questions he might not otherwise answer.

It might indeed.

He allows a moment's silence to pass, continuing to stroke Sherlock's hair.

Then he asks,

"Why did you sleep with me last time?"

He smiles wryly.

"I wanted to do something violent and destructive. Getting attacked by vampires did not pan out. I saw the opportunity to risk my life and sanity for Tony's safety and a chance at killing you, and I took it."

That is a far more thorough answer than he expected. He takes a little time out to absorb it.

"Is that an impulse that comes up often for you?"

"No. I was having a difficult night."

Eyes closed again, sounding quite peaceful about it all, he reminisces, "When we got to your room I had to stop myself breaking your arm the first time you touched me."

His eyebrows go up a little.

"You hid it well," he says dryly.

"I have excellent self-control," he points out.

"I spent most of the rest of that encounter calculating exactly how I would kill you from wherever we happened to be at the time. I stopped..."

He considers, bringing each instance to mind.

"When I leaned on you, before the first time you strangled me. When I panicked that time, it started because I tried to think it through again and couldn't. After you let go I chose not to murder you. The next time you touched me, you had just made me laugh and I didn't think about it."

A breath. No hurry, but quick enough not to break the flow of the words too badly.

"You noticed something was wrong when you had me on the bed about to suck me off and I was thinking about which bones I would break in what order. I stopped being uncomfortable but I didn't quite stop thinking about it until a little farther along. By the end of it I knew damn well I couldn't kill you right then if I tried, so I didn't bother planning it out. But I was thinking about it again when you had your hands around my neck the second time. After, too. I lost track in between, of course."

Sherlock doesn't open his eyes, doesn't look up to absorb Obadiah's reactions. He seems to be caught up in remembering, in arranging all the details in order just as they happened.

"It was in the back of my mind through most of the ensuing conversation. Some times more than others. But I put it out of my mind before you fucked me and after that I was distracted by other considerations."

Obadiah is quiet for a long moment.

Then he says,

"I am going to remember this the next time you try to be evasive when I ask you a question."

He chuckles.

"What," he murmurs, "just to be amazed at the contrast?"

"Because on the off chance you could have tricked me into thinking you don't remember," he says, "now that's not going to happen."

With either of him.

"I have a very good memory," he says, snuggling down a little. "I don't consider that much of a secret. Anyway, if you were wondering, I don't do that any longer. I haven't once planned your murder tonight, for example."

"Too bad," Obadiah says. "You sure as hell would have had the element of surprise."

He gives Sherlock's hair a gentle, pointed tug. From most people, it would be a clear gesture of affection.

Cheerfully: "Not right now I wouldn't. And I don't want to kill you. I like you now, remember?"

He shrugs one shoulder.

"Not that I wouldn't if I needed to. But I would be very upset about it afterward."

Obadiah laughs.

"That's so sweet," he says. "I can't imagine why Watson wasn't interested."

"And here I was under the mistaken impression that you'd rather I continue not wanting to kill you," Sherlock teases, with such good humour it is fairly obvious there's no truth to it.

But then, it is apparently almost impossible to tell when Sherlock is contemplating violence.

"Oh, I don't care what you want," he says, "as long as you don't actually do it."

He chuckles.

"What lovely implications," he says dryly. "Well, luckily for your continued survival, I am currently far too comfortable to move."