ironmonger | (no subject)

"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."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean," he says blandly.

His expression, if Sherlock cares to look, is utterly bland, too. Contrary to what some versions of Tony Stark seem to think, Obadiah has an excellent poker face.

"You're a liar."

He doesn't even bother opening his eyes.

"A half-decent liar, mind you."

"I'm much better when I'm actually trying," he says, in a lazy voice that is almost, but not quite, a murmur.

Sherlock smiles.

It is, for some reason, a little sad.

Obadiah says nothing. He just continues to stroke Sherlock's hair.

"I shut myself in a room and drank Hungarian fruit brandy for days afterward," he says. "I was in something of a state. That may have contributed to Tony's disappointment."

"I see."

That does shed a little light on the situation.

"Well. I can't say I expected him to be delighted about it. The best I was hoping for was no reaction at all."

He chuckles; shrugs; smiles that smile again.

"I suppose we should plan ahead a little more carefully in the future, then," he says.

Not that he'd intended to do anything else. He knows a very, very good situation when he lands right in the middle of one. He is not going to do anything to spoil it.

"Yes, rather," he agrees, glad that he did not have to suggest it himself.

"If you really are indifferent to my desires in a wider context, it is unlikely I can manage this without comprehensively ruining my taste for another variety of alcohol and making Tony worry again."

"I have no interest in a rerun," Obadiah says. "It's more rewarding for me in both the short term and the long term to make sure you're genuinely enjoying yourself."

His smile loses that melancholic edge and picks up one of fondness to replace it.

"That will do quite well. Thank you."