ironmonger | (no subject)

He pours Obadiah another glass, just the same as the first one, and hands it to him.

Then he stands there for a moment, giving him a very thoughtful look.

"I wouldn't kill you for it," he says abruptly. "I would have when I said so but I wouldn't now. You should know that."

That said, he takes a seat, folding himself onto the couch at Obadiah's side, close enough that their shoulders touch again but not directly leaning on him.

Interesting.

He takes a slow, thoughtful sip of whiskey before answering.

"I'll keep that in mind."

He shrugs, settles a little closer, and doesn't say anything more on the subject.

(The effort to pacify hardly even registered; it did not occur to him, and still hasn't, that Obadiah might see any reason to do that. If he had thought about the affectionate tone at all, he would have concluded it was either an act of deliberate antagonism or one of those lies that are true despite themselves. Possibly both. Probably, given context, the former.

In his own way, though, by getting Obadiah that drink and not offering any argument or unsolicited analysis along with it, Sherlock is trying a similar thing in reverse.)

After a calculated moment, Obadiah slides his arm around Sherlock.

Sherlock is forgiven.

Sherlock leans into him with a fond smile. He does not feel obliged to point out that he knows the gesture is mainly a false one, the implicit forgiveness a matter of expedience and not sentiment; he is fairly sure they understand one another on that score already.

"Is there anything else you'd like to know while we're here?" he asks idly.

"How much has Tony told you about us?" he asks.

The question is deliberately phrased - not how much do you know, but how much has Tony said. There is a difference.

"Well put."

And it takes him a moment to sort out what he knows because it was obvious from what Tony told him from what he knows because Tony was obviously leaving it out.

"He said very little about your first encounter, besides that it was his idea and could I please not kill you for it, because he knew I already knew what had happened. He discussed the rest in a little more detail. About the latest, he tried to tell me everything. I corrected him when he forgot the order of events."

Sherlock smiles reminiscently.

"We had a very long conversation about it."

A slight smile tugs at his mouth.

"Did you now."

"Yes."

Some fairly significant parts of that conversation took place without any words at all.

"I take it it met with your approval."

Call it a hunch.

"Yes," again. He laughs a little, snuggling up against Obadiah's side. "Very much. He was—it was clear how much he'd enjoyed himself, and that he trusted you, and that he had good reason to."

It takes time, Obadiah thinks, but once he's warmed up, Sherlock is even more responsive to touch in his way than Tony. Which is impressive.

The information is filed away in the back of his mind.

"I'd imagine it would be hard to miss how much he enjoyed himself."

"He was rather less than subtle about it," Sherlock agrees. "Often he would tell me about the same part two or three times, either for emphasis or because he liked to revisit the memory."

Obadiah chuckles.

"That sounds like Tony," he says. "Storytelling never was his forte."

Still, that particular effort is one Obadiah wishes he could have heard.

"In fact I believe the only part he didn't mention more than once was the second time you strangled him."

But what he did say about it was...

Sherlock hesitates on the point of continuing.

Obadiah feels the hesitation and gives him a questioning glance.

He smiles.

"Shall I show you what he said?"

He notes the word choice.

"Please do."

He leans tiredly on Obadiah's shoulder, the way Tony does. Well. The way Tony leans on Sherlock.

Soft and fond and a little bit frightened, or perhaps a little bit awed: "It's... it was like I loved him so much there wasn't room for anything else."

He pauses for a second to absorb this, then says,

"That's what oxygen deprivation will do for you," and sips his drink.

Sherlock laughs.

"If you like," he says affectionately, shifting to sit like himself again and nestling a little closer as he does it.

He tightens his arm around Sherlock to accommodate the move.

"Or so I hear."

"I suppose you are not well versed in either phenomenon directly."

"No, I've been lucky enough to avoid them so far," he says casually.

"They can both be quite pleasant, but perhaps not to your taste."