milliways_bar | (no subject)

Interesting.

Jim has his drones back up in the bar, so he sees him come in and head out to the back. His fingers drum on the top of the desk in his new room, watching.

His eyes may shift to his T-Minus, which is suspiciously not lighting up with any messages.

Innnteresting.

Still, he's not about to not go and speak to him. The question is whether....oh for God's sake, there is no question. He sighs and heads downstairs, picks up some things on the way past the bar, and wanders out to join him. He has heard about this inlet from a couple of people and had meant to check it out anyway. Now's as good a time as any.

At some point when Sherlock emerges from underwater, he'll find Jim reclining on a towel on the beach wearing shorts and shades, reading Nietzsche in German.

Sherlock shoves his hair out of his face when he comes out of the water. The sight of Jim makes a funny thing happen in his stomach -- not unusual -- but now that Jim has made himself public, the feeling of What the hell are you up to? is stronger than ever.

Still, he walks up the shore and flops onto the empty towel beside Jim.

"A little light reading, I see."

'Mmm.'

He turns a page, and doesn't look up. Partly because Sherlock wet, mussed and in swimming shorts is practically unbearable right now, and partly to make sure that isn't obvious.

'Where have you been?'

He messaged. He doesn't like being ignored. But that doesn't show: if anything, he looks indifferent, hidden behind shades, apart from one corner of his mouth curling gently upwards.

"Home. Dealing with the fallout of your ... escapade."

He smears sunblock on his face and shoulders. An inexplicable sunburn is the last thing he wants now.

The smile may get a little bigger. Just a little. And a tad more smug.

'Having fun, dear?'

He does hope so.

"I'd have more fun if it didn't bring out dozens of reporters to Baker Street," he says, somewhat peevishly. "Somehow it's got out that I've been called as a witness for the prosecution and now everybody wants to know what I know about you.

"I've put everything that rings or buzzes in the microwave."

Yep, just grinning now.

'And there I was, going to call you as part of my defence.'

He is going to fucking kill his useless piece of shit lawyer. ONE. JOB.

...though okay, timelines, blah blah. Maybe Sherlock's a little further ahead.

He slides his shades down a fraction, just enough to peer a tiny bit over the top.

'Don't put too much of that stuff on, darling. It'll taste awful.'

Sherlock smiles without looking at him. "So will sunburnt skin."

He adds, quietly, "I'll have to tell the truth about you in court, whichever side it is."

'Of course you will. I wouldn't ask you to lie.'

Unless it would serve a purpose, which is absolutely not the case here.

'And now you've been called, you are most definitely not supposed to have any contact with me. In the interests of a fair trial, perhaps I should leave?'

But Nietzsche is so interesting, and he's only just got comfortable.

"Perhaps," Sherlock says with a sigh and a sidelong look at Jim. "Maybe after you finish your book."

There should also be kissing maybe?

There should so absolutely definitely be kissing, to the degree that he isn't moving even an inch closer. Never mind the delicious thrill of anticipation, and the way he's been thinking about this for weeks, sitting in a prison cell with no privacy or peace of mind.

'It's a long book.'

He pushes his shades back up his nose, and turns another page.

'Did you speak to your brother? He was disgustingly intransigent about the idea of letting me see you.'

Mycroft is a bastard, news at eleven.

"I did. His face turned three very interesting shades of green."

He leans back on his elbows. "I'm afraid conjugal visits are off the table, for now."

His heels dig into the sand a moment. "I do...miss you."

'I hate him sometimes, you know.'

His eyes glance down towards the movement of Sherlock's heels. The back of his throat goes a little dry, even as there's a small flash of triumph at the admission.

'Do you? Miss me?'

He puts his book down, and takes his glasses off. The sun is very bright without them, but Sherlock's so much clearer. And laid out, leaning back like that. Still wet, and hair all messy. God.

Edited 2016-07-21 20:10 (UTC)