thecapitol | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Who: || Sherlock and Open
Where: || District 2 Suites
When: || A few days after the network blackout
What: || Sherlock is sulking in the most melodramatic way possible, but he has his reasons.
Warnings: || None, save Sherlock being a brooding child

It had been nearly two days, since he had left his rooms. Longer than that, since he had been fully dressed, or spoken to anyone. He'd extracted himself carefully and quietly from daily life in the tribute tower, wallowing in the blackest mood he could summon.

Punchy was missing. Sherlock had few friends, fewer still ones he could accurately describe as having greater expertise in a subject than he did, and Punchy was one of them. Despite the bizarre dialect in which he spoke, Sherlock knew the boy was brilliant when it came to computers, and hacking network systems in particular. So when their comms had been hacked, the message of rebellion spread, Sherlock had immediately wanted his opinion.

Only to find he had disappeared.

He wasn't allowed to investigate, of course - wasn't even allowed in Punchy's room - but it didn't take the world's greatest detective to be able to deduce what had happened to him. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Sherlock wanted to shake him, hard, if only he could find him first. But there was no point in looking. Punchy had almost assuredly been taken deep into the Capitol's crooked heart.

He only hoped the boy would still be alive when he was brought out of it.

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"Noire," John told him, the kind of smile on his face that Sherlock would probably recognise from other occasions when John thought he was doing a) something clever and b) something Sherlock would be proud of him for.
"It's a dining-in-the-dark place, quiet, private, and the food's pretty good, I'm told. I thought you'd like a break from the prying eyes, and I could do with one too."

Sherlock's face made it very clear how slightly ridiculous he found the idea, but for once in his life he held his complaints to himself. Something about John's self satisfied grin made him think there was more to this story than the man was letting on.

John didn't say much for the rest of their walk to the restaurant- his limp noticeably reduced as he led them to their destination with a purposeful, satisfied gait. Once arrived he had a brief conversation with the doorman during which the words 'for me and my date' were used, nodded, and looked back at Sherlock for confirmation before following him inside into the darkness, where they were led to their booth. John's excitement was palpable as he slid onto into the intimate loveseat arrangement, rested his cane against the side and waited for Sherlock to join him.

Sherlock couldn't help but pause, a slightly sharp look on his face, wondering if John was deliberately attempting to placate him after the last ordeal. 'My date' a little too obvious, even for him. But he didn't say anything, sliding into the booth beside John in the pitch darkness. He knew it was John (would know the man by his breath anywhere), but otherwise couldn't see a thing.

For a man that relied upon his eyes as much as Sherlock did, it was mildly disconcerting.

"So what exactly are we eating?"

John grinned, fully aware Sherlock would be able to hear it in his voice.
"Grilled portobello mushroom with parmigiano and balsamic vinegar on a mixed green salad to start, followed by a main course of marinated shrimp with herbs, served with sundried tomato risotto... and a surprise dessert," he rattled off with the air of a man who'd clearly been planning this for a while. "But it's nice, isn't it, to not have everyone staring at us?"

He shifted a little closer, his hand resting on the bench seat between them.

"Unless we were the only ones not equipped with infrared glasses upon entering," Sherlock grumbled into the darkness, squinting hard to see if he could make out any light at all. Unfortunately, they'd done and extremely good job.

He'd thought of that, which was why he took a deep breath and slid his hand across until it was resting on Sherlock's thigh. A tap, he'd thought, might be picked up by Sherlock's bracelet if it was too obvious and rhythmic, so he limited himself to short, gentle movements of his thumb and forefinger. Thumb for dits, pointer for dahs.

"Well, I suppose so," he agreed, as he began, not giving Sherlock time to pull away. dah dit dah dit and a pause, and dah dah dit dah. It was slow and slightly irregular, but the message, he hoped, would get through. CQ. CQ, CQ, CQ...

Sherlock immediately stilled and tensed as he felt John's hand on his thigh. Well that was a development. Between that and the mention of 'my date', Sherlock was quickly beginning to wonder if his forlorn campaign was actually beginning to have an effect--

And then John started moving. He didn't get it at first, wondering vaguely if this was meant to be foreplay (he wouldn't really know), when he recognized the pattern. Morse code.

Clever.

He reached out leisurely, fingers slipping onto John's thigh, and tapped out "..- .-.". UR. I read you.

He swelled with elation, barely resisting the urge to laugh. This could work! Admittedly, it had been a long time since he'd passed Morse proficiency, and he'd never been the best at it, but he had a damn good incentive to learn now.

rustw, he tapped out gently, stumbling at the last consonant, and adding a slightly fumbled but much more practiced apology. SRI.

He paused as he heard a waiter pass, but no one spoke to them and nothing was place at their table, so he relaxed.

So I see, He tapped out, then paused. This was your plan?

C, he tapped back in the affirmative after a fairly long pause- decoding was harder than trying to send. safe?

Maybe.

He leaned in, suddenly, and murmured something vague in John's ear, just before the gentle tap of a glass being set on their table rang out.

"I wasn't expecting you to... ah, bring me to a place like this," Sherlock said, his voice a little husky as his fingers quickly tapped out KN. Go ahead.

Ah. Yes, they'd have to talk, wouldn't they, if they wanted to keep this looking completely innocent- if innocent was the right word.

"Well, I thought you'd need something interesting to get you out of your room," he said, happy to tell the truth. "What do you think? Not being able to see must make things a bit more complicated, right, especially when you're all about observing."

"Complicated. That might be a word for it, yes." He hesitated, slightly, wondering if he should lampshade the fact that they were sitting with their hands on each other's thighs.

Out with it, He tapped out, before out loud he said: "Does this mean - ah, that is... You and Effie--"

Edited (fuck everything) 2013-09-03 15:52 (UTC)

He cleared his throat, fingers gingerly peeling away from Sherlock's thigh. It was odd, really, he hadn't even thought...

"Not really much change there," he mumbled, awkwardly, trying to think of somewhere else. His back, perhaps? But it would be much more obvious what they were doing. "I don't really know what's going on with anything, any more."

Don't be stupid, he tapped out, a little annoyed as John pulled his hand away. Easy cover.

He let the pause between the stretch out, to give John time to decipher it, before simply saying, "I see," in as careful a voice as he could manage.

It took him a while to work it out, especially while trying to manage the verbal conversation too- but after a long moment he slid his hand back, resting it on Sherlock's thigh, gently. This time, an inch or so closer to his knee.

SRI. ABT rebel MSG. He paused. "Sorry," he said out loud. "I don't know what to tell you. Everything's complicated."

w ho?

His fingers paused, curling slightly against John's thigh.

"Fine. I won't ask again," He murmured as the first of their plates was slid before them. He tapped out Punchy against John's leg before he removed his hand and turned to his food.

His earlier excitement died a quick death. He suddenly had a very good guess as to what had triggered Sherlock's dark mood.

"I'm not rejecting you, Sherlock," he said, quietly, because horribly enough that conversation was the easier one to attempt. He felt around on the table for his fork and attempted to spear some food- not that he was all that hungry, suddenly.

"It's more complicated than that."

"John, it's fine." His voice was tight, about both conversations (neither of which he particularly wanted to have), but now he was trapped here and he couldn't just disappear back into his room.

He nodded- a futile gesture in the dark, but it was hardly a conscious action.

"Okay. So- I've never had a portobello mushroom before, so you might have to eat mine too," he said, attempting to lighten the mood a little. His hand slipped under the table, resting on Sherlock's knee.

WL pr actice, he promised haltingly. help U. Punchy.

"... Yes, because I'm a voracious eater," Sherlock said, sullenly poking at his food on his plate, his hands staying resolutely above the table. What did it matter? There was nothing that could be done - nothing that would risk his own life, or worse, John's. No help John could offer. He tentatively sniffed at his food before just making some random sounds of eating it so that John would be satisfied without actually touching it.

John gave Sherlock's knee a gentle squeeze instinctively before returning his attention to his meal- though if he'd been asked to explain his motivations, or even to pinpoint the moment when an attempt to reassure Sherlock with physical contact had become a course of action he'd even consider, he would have found himself at a complete loss.

"There's got to be something you enjoy eating," John offered as he tried to get a piece of mushroom and salad on his fork without his eyesight. It wasn't particularly easy.

"When I'm in a mood," He said, pushing his own food around like a listless two year old. It was all too apparent that he wasn't in a mood then. Whatever slight reprieve his mood had taken at John's insistence upon getting out was now lost - the black weight of his previous foul mood once more settling upon his shoulders.

Thankfully, it was a little easier getting the forkful into his mouth than it had been getting the food on the fork. He chewed, thoughtfully, and decided he didn't actually like portobello mushrooms all that much. The next time he attacked his plate, it was to try and find the mushroom, stab it and deposit it on Sherlock's plate with as little fuss as possible.

Which, it turned out, was quite a lot of fuss. Ridiculously so, really.

"There isn't anything that you like just because it's good? How about bacon?"