non, je ne parlerai pas || sherlock

[vvvvv]

The distant tump tump of footsteps echoes dully off the ceramic in the small, enclosed space of the bathroom, a low counterpoint to the tap tap of droplets colliding with the ceramic of the sink, a leaking faucet metronome. Inhale.

“Sherlock?”

Accompanied by the particular creak of the hinges of the living room door. A pause, and the footsteps continue. Sherlock sinks further down into the water, legs folded awkwardly to fit as much of him as possible into the bathtub. His eyes remain closed. It is due, perhaps, to the fact that sulk and soak sound so awfully alike that the two tend to overlap, though this particular brand of sulking little resembles its louder and more public cousin. That sullenness has a point. This is pure self-indulgence.

“Sherlock?”

Closer this time. The footsteps pass through the kitchen, and Sherlock's forefinger stirs the water lazily as he follows John through the process. Not here. Not there. Coat hanging up so obviously home. Light under closed door. The breathy hum of the lazy, ineffectual bathroom fan.

Two quick raps of the knuckle. One-two. Military precision. “Sherlock.”

Inhale.

This one comes out in an exaggerated sigh, high-voiced and breathy, a measure of just how put out he is by the effort of even answering.

“You've got messages.” Silence. So what?

Sherlock doesn't come here for the work, and not precisely out of a lack thereof, though that certainly contributes to the mood in which he currently finds himself, contemplative and less than pleased with it. In here he has a measure of privacy, time to take in stillness, to indulge in the warmth and weight of the water and his own relative weightlessness, and time to contemplate himself. His being. As he is, devoid of other trappings. Pale, fleshly, animal. Human. More or less.

He pinches the flesh of his thigh between thumb and forefinger, not to hurt but to assess. Firm but pliant. The grip releases and he raises his hand from the water, opening his eyes to watch the droplets gather at his fingertips and fall with little liquid plips back into the bath.

The knob turns and the door opens just a crack, not enough for John to see but just enough to ensure he's being heard.

“Sherlock?”

“By any other name.” Would still be an arse. There's an exasperated little huff of breath from the other side of the door.

“Messages.”

“Mm.”

“Could be a case?”

“Could be.” That much he must concede, though his tone hardly conveys interest, or even curiosity. Nor in fact does he feel it, at the moment. His hand slips back beneath the surface of the water to rest against his chest, fingertips to the lower end of his sternum. Somewhere in there a heart, apparently. All muscle and blood, too chewy to eat.

Not that people don't. Eat hearts, that is. Some of them.

Again that outrushing of breath, this one more insistent, and John's footsteps retreat, leaving the door cracked. Sherlock turns his head to stare at the humble plane of painted wood, simply listening as John goes and begins to return, accompanied by the scraping of wood on wood. He's bringing a chair.

“'Dear Mr. Holmes.'” That voice, edging more towards prim than is John's wont. The one that means he's reading someone else's words. The fact that he makes them all sound like gits is refreshing – the point makes itself, spares him the trouble.

“'I'm writing to you because I don't know where else to turn. Three months ago--'”

“Ugh.” Heavy on the gh, with a lazy, velar breathiness, low in the throat, weighed down by distaste.

“You don't want to hear them?” He can't see it, nor can he precisely hear it, but Sherlock knows the expression John is wearing, the downturned corners of the mouth, a frown that looks like a struggle, the one he wears when he knows he oughtn't be smiling but, in spite of that, is having difficulty refraining from doing so.

“Not that one. Is that meant to be flattering? 'Oh, hello, you're not my first choice but I suppose you'll do.'” He raises his hand and lazily flicks a few droplets of water in the direction of the door. If he cranes his neck right, he can just barely see, in the half-fogged mirror, some of the lines of John's face through the crack in the door, lit up by the screen of the mobile. The nasal bone spreading out towards the zygomatic. The glabella, when he lowers his head. A stretch of furrowed brow. He can tell by the distortion of each that John is hunched over, propped up on his fist, which presses into his cheek, stretching the mouth and compressing the laugh lines at the corner of his eye, all out of sight. Still. Thoroughly comfortable. No regard for appearances. There'll be no sign of it all but a little reddening of the skin by the time Sherlock leaves the bath, he's sure. It's a very private thing.

Perhaps this is too, the idle soak, but then that's why the door, isn't it? Keeps them both safe, not just Sherlock.

Well. Reasonably safe.

"Right." Dubious. A little huff of laughter, not quite humorous so much as mocking. The way John laughs when Sherlock is being, in his mind, patently ridiculous and more than a little unfair. So it goes. That's his right.

"Right. 'Mr. Holmes. Sherlock. I don't really know what to call you, but if you're half as gorgeous as he makes you sound, I'll call you anything you--' Yeah, no."

"Mm. Best not. Delete it." The corner of his mouth quirks up in a faint smile which, like his curls, clings damply to his face in the fading humidity of the bathroom. "How do they find me?"

A rhetorical question always deserves a facetious answer. "Your number is on your website."

"Ah. Yes." As though he hadn't thought of it. A game they often play together. Sherlock shifts, the water rippling audibly about him, to bring cooling flesh back below the surface of the water. "Nothing, of course, to do with your blog."

Emphasis on the velar, that final, condemning sound. As though that's what it is. As though that's all it is, just a blog.

He can hear John's consternation even before he speaks, a faint rustling of clothing. "I have never once described you as 'gorgeous.'"

A sigh. More's the pity. It continues as he speaks, intermingling with the first few words, rendering them breathy. "Yes, well, I expect they were paraphrasing."

A disbelieving huff. Sherlock doesn't have to see John to know that he's shaking his head. He is, of course. Taking the piss, as the head shake implies. Not, however, quite to the degree that John imagines.

"How about this one? Kid disappears from house, parents in next room, all doors and windows locked, nothing broken..." Sherlock can hear the rustle of his clothing which means that he's gesturing as he speaks, and in spite of himself smiles at the image of John hunched over on a chair in the empty hallway, talking to no one. Voice and hands. An absolute madman. It's fine. All well and good. Nothing new, for one. Sherlock likes madmen, besides. They're as close as anyone else gets to perfect honesty. Self-contained. A man gesticulating in an empty hallway.

A low chuckle bubbles up in his chest.

"That's funny?" More bafflement than ire, though it could so easily have been the latter. Laughing, apparently, tends to correlate to a lack of concern, which itself correlates to irritation on John's part. As though it isn't part of the job. As though he could get anything done if he were busy caring all the time.

"No. No, just obvious. Member of the family or someone else with a key. I'll text Lestrade later." Obvious as a crossing of lines. X marks the spot. Compatible neuroses, or maybe just appropriately perpendicular.

John would, of course, be deeply offended to hear Sherlock say any such thing, but that's part of the fun. Like an inside joke in which only one of the parties in question fully understands what the joke is about, and Sherlock does like to be at an advantage. The thought makes him smile all the wider as he breathes in the humidity rising from the water, now cooling all the more rapidly as the crack in the door allows the insulating buffer of steam to escape the room. Let the chill in. It's how they are: John gives him a fear of death, and he offers John the possibility of it. A good look. Skirting the edge, the feeling in the gut when standing on a ledge and something, somewhere deep inside is screaming to jump.

"Here's one from your brother."

A more than suitable way to spoil the mood. Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "Delete that one too."

"No thanks. Do you get a lot of those?" Simmering curiosity, obvious in his attempt to keep his tone utterly casual.

"What, texts from my brother? You've no idea. Awful, really." And it is. Mycroft is an excellent student of human beings, but that doesn't make him excessively astute when it comes to interpersonal relationships. Sherlock, of course, hardly has room to talk, but even he knows that having grown up with someone does not in and of itself give carte blanche to any and all future familiarity. Not, of course, that Sherlock's permission has ever mattered. When Mycroft wants something, he gets it.

That he is still, at least in name, Sherlock's brother makes it all the more complicated.

At least there's John, here to drag him out of that particularly dark line of thought. "No, the... you know."

"Clumsy, unsubtle propositions? Loads since you moved in." There's less warmth in the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth now, but just as much humour.