I am not eager to rehearse my thoughts and theory which you have forgotten [closed]

[could_be_dangerous]

WHO: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
WHERE: Sherlock's apartment
WHEN: Mid-November?
WHAT: Somebody's buttblasted.
WARNINGS: Possible mention of violence, otherwise maybe not much? Who really knows. I'll edit as needed.

There are, even under these circumstances, certain expectations to satisfy, even d they're only Sherlock's. The bolt on the door is drawn. Shirt and jacket adjusted. Just as importantly, he busies himself with an electric kettle, recently-acquired and one of the few things adorning a surprisingly Spartan kitchen, marked by virtually none of the chaos and clutter which tends to follow Sherlock wherever he goes. It wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that he hasn't changed his ways in the slightest, that the clutter in fact lies elsewhere, and it does. Occasionally, Sherlock goes back to Baker Street.

Whether or not John will catch on, of course, remains to be seen.

It doesn't escape him, given how much time he's spent in his memory of late, that this mirrors the expectation of another arrival of a less desirable sort, and maybe that's appropriate. John is, no doubt, determined to make himself the stranger at the door, the creak of the floorboards, the intruder rather than the friend because that's what he does when Sherlock has done something to displease him. It's to be expected — he has been displeasing. All for the best, but not the easiest option for anyone involved. What John perhaps forgets is that Sherlock is very thoroughly involved. He will be reminded.

In the mean time, the stillness of ritual. One which generally requires more patience than he can muster with any skill when the world is too full of other distractions, but this one is relatively obscure and so for now Sherlock becomes a machine for chemistry, energy and reagents, which is of course all that's involved, one very simple reaction carefully controlled so as to create the optimal solution, flavour molecules in a density low in tannins, by degrees. It's child's play, and therefore generally not worth doing. But here they are, Sherlock mustering as much quiet solemnity as he can, some of it genuine, waiting.

And John... expected, not present. Their circles of space don't overlap much anymore.

Comments

[acclimatized]

John purses his lips, his expression decidedly sheepish and telegraphing his inability to remember the details he read in Sherlock's file. He was focused on the ridiculous job they wanted him to do instead and besides... this was Sherlock Holmes. He was incredible enough without added enhancements, so John didn't think about it that much. He often joked about creating and maintaining a memory bungalow to rival his palace, but that never came to fruition.

"That can't be healthy." He remarks dryly, but the offer to show John disarms him all the same. How many times was he forced to sit outside Baker Street when Sherlock wanted to go into his mind palace? More than he can care to count. He definitely isn't interested in seeing Mary shoot Sherlock and shakes his head.

"I don't want to see that. You can show me anything else you've got in there if you want, just not that. Please."

[could_be_dangerous]

"Keeping it or showing her?" Healthier, surely, than not to have kept it. Certainly safer in the long run, which in this case is roughly equivalent to making an investment in his own well-being. That he wouldn't put it past her to do it again, and this time for good, necessitates that he not just keep the memory, but cultivate it. Plenty has grown from it already. Look where they *are*.

"I keep everything of importance, John, you know that, and I'll admit to a certain lack of concern for her health, under the circumstances. Nothing serious. No great harm done," he offers almost flippantly, with a sly glance. Don't you feel better now that you're not building on lies? Fragile foundation, necessitates the fabrication of too much information, like grains of sand — prone ultimately to liquefaction, all the more so for a man like John, unaccustomed to the sort of mistruths that mean anything. He's never been an accomplished liar, not in the way his wife is, or even Sherlock, who lies constantly if largely by omission.

There's plenty John doesn't say either, but he's straightforward about not saying it. Sherlock does his best, on the other hand, not to reveal that there's anything more to him at all — a matter of safety, naturally, and he's doing it now in refraining from admitting that letting anyone into that place is unhealthy too, that it leaves him remarkably vulnerable to damage and that he wouldn't have permitted Mary that much power over him if he hadn't felt that he had to. So the small, sly smile, the little jab at John's home life and mental state, the better to distract from his own.

[acclimatized]

"Both." John reciprocates with blunt honesty, a small smile tugging on his tense lips and tension ebbing away from his shoulders. Everyone knows that lying has never been John's particular forte. When Mycroft told him about what happened to Irene Adler, he blundered his way through the story they fabricated downstairs with little conviction. She would be very happy establishing a new life in America in a witness protection program... unless she bartered the wrong people again. John sincerely hoped she wouldn't: Sherlock's relationship with 'The Woman' was a mystery to him, but the desolate period between Christmas and New Year is not something John wants to re-experience ever again.

"Think I'll leave it for today, then. Whatever you've got in there, it's nothing compared to what I imagine it to be: the Taj Mahal meets Alice and Wonderland." He hastily pops a cupcake into his mouth as an old memory resurfaces, sending shivers up and down his spine while he chews in trepidation. Of course, he is curious about what else Sherlock has committed to his memory, but it isn't the sort of thing you ask when you come over to make peace.