ironmonger | (no subject)

(no subject)

The past few days are finally starting to take their toll on Obadiah when Milliways appears tonight. It's mostly over, save for tracking down the masterminds and dealing with them. Tony is fine - physically, at least - and Sherlock hardly the worse for wear despite the blow to the head he took. In terms of physical damage, the worst they got was Jones's broken leg. In terms of publicity, they're doing well; Stark Industries is front page news. Everyone likes a happy ending.

He's still looking very much forward to making the assholes in charge of the operation pay the price, but for now he's more than happy to settle in at the fireplace with a drink. And, at Bar's insistence, dinner.

[OOC: Warning for painplay and consensual breaking of safewords at some point after the six-hundred-comment mark. This one kind of got away from us.]

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Sherlock doesn't see it.

He doesn't just look open and vulnerable; he is. He has given Obadiah his complete trust, enough so that he believes no harm will come to him, enough so that he is no longer even looking to see if it might. Not analyzing Obadiah's movements, consciously or unconsciously. Not counting the passage of time by his still-measured breaths.

Not paying attention to anything but sensuality and trust.

Eventually, he reaches the moment when he cuts Sherlock's air off altogether. When he starts counting the seconds in his head, that's habit too; the sight of Sherlock like this is an absorbing one. Absorbing, and tantalizing.

At no point does he struggle; at no point does he so much as move. His eyelashes flutter, never falling all the way open or all the way shut.

He smiles.

It's just as well the habit of counting is ingrained. If Sherlock keeps up like this, it's entirely possible Obadiah could break the unconsciousness limit purely by accident if he didn't have a way other than Sherlock's reactions to keep track.

It's entirely possible, at this moment, that Sherlock wouldn't mind.

(When he woke up would be another story.)

Either way, he has no intention of pushing his luck if he can possibly help it.

When the time is up, he lets go.

Sherlock inhales in a dizzy rush, opening his eyes.

The way he smiles up at Obadiah says quite clearly that he is not yet back to earth. It's pure warmth, affection and happiness, without the slightest trace of the wry humour that always lurks around the corner when Sherlock looks at Obadiah with anything like love.

It reminds him of Tony.

His response is the one Tony would get: he leans down to kiss Sherlock lightly on the forehead.

He closes his eyes again, finds one of Obadiah's hands—not unerringly from memory, as he usually would, but by letting his fingertips drift along an arm from elbow to wrist—brings it gently to his lips, and kisses it.

That is rather less like Tony, though he supposes the impulse behind it is the same idea. He offers no objection.

That seems to have exhausted his store of voluntary movements for now, although his fingers stay loosely curled around Obadiah's hand. His breathing is not quite back to normal—still a little rough, a little unsteady—but he doesn't seem bothered, makes no effort to correct it.

Obadiah stays where he is, allowing Sherlock to hold his hand in place.

Slowly, one by one, all the missing things return. The watchfulness, the awareness, the many busy layers of his mind.

"Thank you," he says softly.

For how good it felt, and for resisting the temptation—there must have been temptation—to take advantage of him in that state.

Watching Sherlock come back together is interesting; he's not sure he's seen anything quite like it before.

"Not a problem," he says easily.

This time, when he flashes a grin and kisses Obadiah's hand, he knows exactly what he is doing and who with.

"D'you know, I believe you completely."

This time, Obadiah snorts and reclaims his hand.

Sherlock laughs and tucks both his hands behind his head.

"Yes, I know. I am ridiculous. I can't help feeling boundlessly affectionate right now, I'm afraid. Don't worry, I will soon be back to friendly mockery, unless you make a habit of beating me not quite bloody every time we talk."

"Don't tempt me."

Obadiah rotates his shoulder, which is already feeling slight twinges from the workout. His arm is going to ache tomorrow.

"Oh, but it worked out so well the last time."

He chuckles.

"In that case," he says, "hold that thought."

"Happily."

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