milliways_bar | (no subject)

"Really?" John Watson says as he steps through the door. To his credit, he barely misses a beat at the sudden change of scenery and just keeps walking, now aiming for the Bar rather than the drawing room. "Really? That's your excuse." He's still dressed for London in November, hat tipped slightly askew and cane in hand.

"Your waistcoat, my dear Watson, is simply too small for you," Holmes answers, hooking his thumbs in the article of clothing in question as he follows Watson in at a much more measured pace - one could say leisurely.

"Think of it as a charitable act, a donation from the very depths of your generosity."

"--No," says Watson, in a tone that would be thoughtful if it wasn't quite so irritated. "No." He pulls the current issue of the Times out from under his arm (where he has been carrying it tucked between his arm and his body), points at Holmes with it in a vaguely threatening manner, says, "No" one more time, and breaks off to stump over toward the fireplace, where he will drop down into an armchair and start aggressively reading the day's news, apparently having decided to refuse any dealings with Holmes at this particular moment in time.

"Consider this a favor," Holmes calls out after him, glancing down at the waistcoat and brushing off a smudge of invisible dirt. "It's hardly your color, old chap."

He proceeds to the Bar in pursuit of a drink - only to find it inconveniently abandoned.

He glances back at Watson, seemingly engrossed in his paper.

Less than a moment later, he's ducked behind the Bar, re-familiarizing himself with the available stock.

[OOC: Two pups, two muns, but only Holmes is available for tagging. (Watson-mun is going the fuck to sleep, say sorry!) Come and get your bartending on!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He takes the roll with a brief if sincere smile of his own, nodding slowly. He'd noted the scars, if only for a moment or two, their edges not quite mottled enough to be identified as something resulting from a traditional baking accident - those would typically be on the hands or arms, and these are decidedly not.

"And is that all you do?" he asks, around a mouthful of warm roll. "Bake?"

"As both profession and vocation, yeah," she smiles, helping herself to a small slice of a rich, dark-chocolate cake as deep and dark and delicious as sin.

She is a phenomenal baker.

She is a horrible liar.

"Mmm."

Holmes' response is not presently limited to his enjoyment of the sweet roll.

He's established his own deductions, but he won't attempt to share them. Watson has explained to him the virtues of not necessarily doing so.

She is currently pretending to ignore his misgivings, while enjoying the slice of Bitter Chocolate Death.

"So that's me and the cinnamon rolls introduced," Rae remarks. "What about you?"