AN: Part 3 already! Thanks for the love so far, I'm glad this venture isn't turning out too badly.
After roughly three minutes of scales, the noise abruptly stops. Seven seconds later, John's phone buzzes.
Not coming back down? Tea is getting cold.
SH
I'll make more later.
JW
John resumes scrolling down with his laptop's directional pad, half-reading some article about the effects of prolonged social isolation on the human psyche.
There is a brief, angry little tirade on the violin from downstairs, a loud little childish fit of a cacophony that ends abruptly. There follows a bit of stomping, some banging in the kitchen and a long (for Sherlock) silence.
Then, John's phone buzzes.
Are you a bad lover?
SH
Honestly, you are asking me this?
JW
It can't be your demeanor, you a perfectly civil. Mostly. I am trying to deduce, John. Answer the question.
SH
She says that she wants to wait, Sherlock, if it is ANY of your business.
JW
A brief silence is followed by a loud, "Of course!" from downstairs.
She doesn't find you sexually appealing, yet she maintains the illusion of a physical relationship with you because she has dependency issues. Multiple beaus connotes that she has a spare, should she lose one. Always prepared, your Beatrice. Where have you put my nicotine patches?
SH
You don't need one.
JW
John lets out a long sigh, not sure how to take the news about Beatrice. It's not like Sherlock is ever wrong. Should he bother calling her? It had been looking so promising... He closes his laptop, then his eyes, leaning back against his headboard and wondering what to do now.
There's a long bout of nothing, lasting for nearly a ten full minutes. Then, the sound of the violin starts up. But it's not annoyed scraping anymore. It's a song, and it's rather good.
After a moment it becomes horrifyingly clear that it's Alejandro.
John opens his eyes at the moment of recognition, letting out a short snort of a laugh. "Sherlock, are you kidding me?" He shouts. Tempted to go downstairs just to shut that up, John straightens up, moving his closed laptop away. He wonders if Sherlock will stop now that he's yielded a reaction.
Rather than stopping the song, which had been a fairly classical rendition, John's outburst causes the song to jump up in both volume and tempo, bouncing along jauntily. Sherlock is frankly considering segueing into Poker Face, but he hasn't worked out the transition yet and so he continues.
"Sherlock," John calls out again, inconclusively. He stands and goes down the stairs, appearing in the doorway and looking at Sherlock. "Could you quit that?" He doesn't really look angry anymore.
Sherlock peers over his shoulder when John appears and drops his bowhand, still holding the violin between chin and shoulder. He smirks, somewhat victoriously. "Chinese?"
"Alright." John replies, giving in just a little and coming over to sit on one side of the empty couch. "But I'm not ordering."
Sherlock swings the violin away, setting it on his chair and sweeping toward the phone in the same move. "Very well. Usual, then?" He can't recall John ever ordering anything other than the dim sums. Irrelevant data, not sure why he hasn't deleted it yet.
"Yes, thanks." John leans back. "Haven't you been offered any cases lately? It's been a few weeks, hasn't it?" He thinks he might need something to get his mind off of... it.
"Hm," Sherlock says as he searches amidst the kitchen clutter for the landline. "No, nothing interesting. Lestrade offered a supposed murder near King's Cross, but it was suicide. I could tell over the phone, it's a marvel no one else noticed." He finally finds the phone stepping into the doorway between kitchen and sitting room-he hisses when he presses the phone to his ear, having completely forgotten about the bruise there, then goes again, ordering in a bland voice.
John sighs. "So why don't you just tell them, rather than making them take days and days before giving up?" He patiently waits for Sherlock to finish ordering.
"And take all the fun out of it for them?" Sherlock asks after he's finished ordering. "No, I think Lestrade likes it when I leave him something easy to solve on his own once in a while." He looks as though he would like to splay out on the couch like a lazy kid, but since John is there he grimaces slightly and turns instead to perch in his chair.
Sherlock touches fingertips briefly to the purpling bruise under his eye thoughtlessly as his brain works. "I do wish I had something other than deducing your love life to exercise my thought process."
"Touching the bruise won't cause it to heal any faster."John comments offhandedly, adjusting himself on the couch. He wonders which one of them will end up getting the door for the Chinese. "If you're bored, maybe we could..." John trails off, not really certain how he was going to end that sentence anyway.
Sherlock gives him a very odd look reminiscent of the one he shot his friend across the table their first night at Angelo's. Confused, amused, wondering if he's heard John right.
He looks away, dropping his fingers from the bruise as he's asked. "John, as much as I appreciate the attention, you've just come off a break-up and I don't really think it's your best option right now."
"I.. what?" Something clicks. "I- No, no of course not." John's face looks like something out of a comic. "I mean, that's fine if you... no, that's not what I meant at all. Sorry." John looks flustered, not knowing how to get out of this conversation. Maybe the food will arrive faster than usual. Something. Anything.
Sherlock might be laughing to himself, but it doesn't show—much—and he only scrutinizes John for a moment more. "It's fine." He hops up out of the chair. "The delivery won't be along for another ten minutes at best, you know. Willing it here faster won't do a thing."
John eyes Sherlock, wishing he wouldn't do the deduction thing with quite so many of John's thoughts. He sort of wishes he had brought his laptop down with him, but also dreads receiving some sort of message from Beatrice. Though she IS just as likely to call his mobile.. reflexively, John checks it. Nothing.
Sherlock stands in front of John, hands in his pockets and looking down, deducing despite himself. "I probably could get Mycroft to drop a bomb, if you'd like."
"Sherlock. Honestly. Not every problem is best solved with bombings."
Sherlock sighs as though he's supremely disappointed and flops down unceremoniously on the other end of the sofa, propping his feet up on the coffee table and crossing them at the ankles. "I ordered. You pay. And answer the door. One of their delivery boys... doesn't care for me."
John doesn't dare ask why, and looking at the time it seems that the delivery should be almost to their flat. Limping down the stairs, John reaches the door and opens it, only to be almost hit in the face by the about-to-knock delivery boy. The worker looks apprehensive, even scared, but there is a small look of relief once he sees that the man answering the door is one, blond, and two, shorter than him. "Thanks." John says, noticing the young man's discomfort and paying quickly.
Sherlock doesn't stand to move or help John in any way when he returns with the food, simply watching him dully through half-lidded eyes and folding his fingers on his chest.
Eventually, he speaks up: "Sorry." It doesn't sound entirely convincing, as if he's deduced that it's what one should say in this situation, but it's not entirely cold either.
John blinks a few times, taken aback. "Thanks. "He hands Sherlock his half of the food, sitting back down onto the couch with a little sigh. He wishes even more for a distraction, plagued by dual threats of thoughts of Beatrice, and awkward conversations with Sherlock.
Sherlock pops a dumpling in his mouth, observes John briefly as he chews, then stands abruptly to stride across the room for the remote. Soon, James Bond is up on the screen and Sherlock has dipped back down on the opposite end of the sofa, chewing on another dumpling.
"What have you deduced so far?" John asks dryly, only a half-minute or so into the movie. He doesn't look very happy, or very interested. It's all starting to sink in.
Not really looking at John, Sherlock speaks around a half-chewed dumpling. "It's all frankly impossible. A jump like that would have shattered every bone in his legs, parkour or no." Regardless, he seems to be enjoying it, as he's settled deeper into the cushions.
John lets out a quiet, brief laugh. "Probably." He tries to watch the movie, leg starting to ache despite John knowing that it is really all in his head and it's just the stress of the night. He wonders when Sherlock will start to get frustrated with the "stupidity" of some of the characters. Maybe he'll stop watching before they get to that point.
Despite John's expectations, Sherlock seems entertained by the movie—for all of about fifteen minutes. Then the phone in his pocket gives a buzz. He wrangles with the food and the phone for a moment before he manages to pull it out.
He frowns when he reads the message, and his eyes flick concernedly over to the other end of the couch, wheels turning furiously. He nearly says something, pouts lightly, then turns back to the phone, looking crossly at the piece of technology as he texts with one hand.
Glancing over briefly, John notes Sherlock's texting. "A case?" He asks hopefully, trying not to sound too hopeful. On the other hand, it could be something entirely different, something that he doesn't want to hear about. John wonders why he bothered asking, sighing and taking another bite of his food, eyes returning to the set.
Sherlock stands rather hastily. "He's dead. The man I hit earlier, that is. Lestrade would like for me to come in." As if it's nothing more concerning than a boiling kettle, he adds: "You'd be a valuable alibi, if you came along."
John tries not to betray any of the happiness he feels at being called in, however oddly it is mixed with dread. "He... what? How?" He stands, taking the last bite of the Chinese and looking around for his coat. "I should at least see the body." A little voice in the back of John's head is saying that he only wants to see it in order to wonder at what Beatrice saw in the man.
Sherlock suspects why John wants to see the body, and he gives a light smirk in reply, pulling on his own coat. "Lestrade is being very tight-lipped about it. Says the less I know about it, the better." Looping the scarf around his neck and heading for the stairs, Sherlock grins in honest. "You had nothing to worry about, anyhow. He was a rather pitiful specimen."
John frowns. Sherlock is doing it again. But it's no matter, at least there is something to do. They take yet another cab back down to the station. John is looking out the window, watching streaks of rain slip down the cab's dirty window. Sherlock's not much for talking once something has caught his attention.
Sherlock has been texting most of the time in the cab. One of them appears to be for John, as his phone buzzes.
Mycroft tells me that Beatrice is there. You don't have to come if you don't want to see her.
SH
Checking his phone with a suspicious glance at Sherlock, John replies verbally, rhetorically. "Well, I'm already on my way, aren't I?" He is trying to be brave.
This is good enough for Sherlock, who grins smugly at his phone.