milliways_bar | (no subject)

It wasn't quite summer yet in New York, but it was close enough. The weather had been clear and hot, but thankfully hadn't quite reached the point where it was oppressive. That said, a change for the cooler wasn't unwelcome, and when the front door opened to reveal the t-shirt-clad form of April O'Neil, the wry quirk to her lips suggested she was pleased enough to step over the threshold into the familiar confines of Milliways Bar.

She'd been around, but rarely for more than a few minutes together, generally simply checking in or using the bar as a way station between her New York and late-1800s London. Today, though, April thought she'd linger awhile, if only to take note of the growing sea of unfamiliar faces, and perhaps see a few familiar ones, as well.

Seating herself at the bar, she ordered coffee -- Large, with lots of sugar and cream, and Bar still knew just how to make it -- and opened the copy of the New York Times that had been tucked under her arm.

[OOC: It's been awhile; please feel free to interrupt her!]

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"I should be happier, as always, were they problems of a more challenging nature," said Holmes, placing undue emphasis on the adjective. The subtle brightness to his eyes showed off his general good humour, nevertheless. "But yes, everything should conclude shortly, and in good order."

The longer strands of his wide-cast net around Moriarty remained, awaiting the subtle tug of the spider from the center of its web, nature in reverse with the spider stalked by the fly. The image appealed to Holmes' sense of irony.

He gave April a sideways glance, arching one darkly eloquent brow. "And does everything go equally well at home?"

"Typical," April answered, and slid from her stool, coffee cup in hand. "Pretty quiet." She leaned unabashedly against the long lines of Sherlock's body, pressing a kiss at his hairline. There were things she thought to say, but didn't. How her home seemed less like her home, now. That she missed London when she wasn't in it, even with all the required quirks of propriety. That even when he ignored her in favor of work, she would rather be with him.

Whether he intentionally ignored her might always be a source of debate, as he had habitually treated Watson in just the same fashion--foregoing communication entirely for weeks or even months on end, and then quite suddenly bursting through the door with one case or another to pursue to its inevitable conclusion.

In truth, he dared not try her patience quite so much, as she plainly hadn't any patience at all with his eccentricities. He slid one arm lightly around her waist, less wary of returning her physical advances here in the bar than at home at Baker Street. "How marvelously dull," he replied, voice dry, as the description was rather apt to how he had been thinking of 221B recently.

"I was waiting for you to come sweep me off on an adventure," April teased, nosing against his temple. "You're falling down on the job, buddy." His arm felt arm and familiar, and it was difficult to keep from pushing closer, seeking more of his addictive warmth. She managed, but just barely, and only for him.

Somewhere rather less public, he would certainly not have protested. As it was, his hand splayed lightly at her hip, touching more of her at once, still subtle. "My latest adventure involved being lowered into a well," he replied, definitely droll, "and I cannot say that it proved to be anything but an experience both damp and dark. And singularly uninformative, to my frustration."

He slanted her half a smirk. "Though next time I shall be quite sure to invite you. Or rather, to sweep you."