Who: Loki and Sherlock What: Discussing Preya... and whatever else happens to arise. When: Thursday, 4PM Where: Sherlock's flat Rating: Probably nothing except Sherlock's murderous thoughts regarding Jim.
If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes wasn’t good at, it was hosting company. John usually took charge in those times, told Sherlock how to conduct himself and no matter how much he detested being told what to do, he appreciated the input. He knew that he’d be upstream without a paddle when it came to mitigating an awkward first meeting without his only friend’s help but there was a significant problem right now… he had invited a ‘Loki’ to his apartment and had to go at this without John’s help or advice.
Hours before the meeting was to take place, he popped into the market, staring down the aisles as if each one was a yawning mouth to hell. He approached slowly, warily, eyeing each product, trying to figure out exactly what he would need to get him through this next week and finding himself with a distinct buzzing feeling in his head. He hated this. The mundane. Selecting his fuel of choice, what to offer guests when they came over, the whole thing was average, completely foreign to him and a huge waste of his time. When he considered what he could be doing rather than the damn shopping, he could feel his lips turn downwards a little further until he navigated the aisles with a full pout. He grabbed random things from the shelf: peanut butter (did he even like peanut butter?), white bread, some slices of smoked provolone, Irish Breakfast tea, sugar, creamer, coffee, sliced ham (he knew he wouldn’t eat it, he just wanted to know in good conscience that he’d purchased a protein, pasta, pasta sauce, eggs, Heinz baked beans, chocolate digestives and a pack of cigarettes, which he intended on breaking into the moment he got home from this new form of torture the world had lobbed at him.
He could barely believe he’d survived that dull, mind-numbing experience, but he did so for a purpose. He put away the perishables, leaving everything else strewn about the kitchen counter, had a seat in his chair and lit up, tilting his head back a little and letting his concerns, his annoyance, his deeply offended sensibilities slip to the back of his mind, enjoying the buzz he got from the cigarette he’d nearly smoked to the filter in two or three draws. Next time he’d pick up nicotine patches as well. A cigarette was good but nothing could really beat the rush of six patches on his forearm at a time.
Eyeing the clock, he knew he should expect Loki soon and put some water on to boil. He sighed and said aloud, “Who knows if it’s even safe to broach the topic? Who’s in his web now?” Plucking another cigarette out of the pack, he lit it and rubbed his temples after taking a drag. Sherlock knew he was just on edge because of all the new responsibilities he had to take on such as feeding himself, getting said food, trying to communicate on top of remaining at the top of his game and leaving no stone unturned, no corner unsearched, no account left unspoken. This was his biggest case yet and his client was all of Preya. On a smaller scale, he still had to find him. Moriarty owed him a fall and Sherlock owed him the end of his perverse little fairytale. Sherlock didn’t often let onto it but he was vindictive… to the point of vengeful, if someone just so happened to mess with his world as he’d established order in it. Taking him from his home for two years and losing John to a wife was unforgivable in his opinion. Moriarty had walked free because he intimidated the jury but in Preya, Sherlock was jury and executioner now. He’d pay. Dearly.
Putting out his second cigarette, he relaxed back into his chair and grabbed his violin from where it sat in a case next to him on the floor. Not noticing the time, he took it out, held it to his chin and started to improvise a solemn march in a minor key. He drew out notes and his fingers danced over the strings to build to a crescendo… which he played over again and again until he felt satisfied by it.
Before he knew it, as he was still figuring his goal out going note-by-note, closing his eyes and leaning into the instrument almost as if in a trance, he heard a knock at the door. He was deep in the recesses of his own thoughts, he hardly noticed it. The second time after he hadn’t answered it, he definitely heard it but frowned, trying to block it out, concentrating on his playing. The third time, his eyes shot open into slits, he looked like a man pushed to the brink and almost turned around and shouted, ‘I’m busy, are you deaf?’ But he then noticed the clock and felt a little panic seize him. He was going to have to make a go of this alone. John’s voice was in his head.
‘Relax Sherlock, it’s a guest. Open the door, say hello, don’t think out loud, for God’s sake. That’s the most important thing. If they’re a client, do the ‘thing’ you do but otherwise, keep your mouth shut.’
“Always a pleasure, John,” he muttered to himself as he went to unlock the door and let out a deep sigh before opening it. He was dressed plainly in a dark blue shirt, grey trousers, dress shoes and the tea was boiling. Standing safely behind the door and leaving Loki as much room as he needed in the doorway to enter, he forgot the whole ‘smile’ thing and said, “Hello. Please come in. Feel free to sit… “ he looked behind himself at the furniture. “Anywhere but the chair with the violin on it.”
A cursory look revealed slicked, black hair, brilliantly green eyes, a stature that surpassed his own (though people always told him he looked taller in his pictures) and a rather… distinct sense of style, which he raised his eyebrow at a bit. Otherwise, his skin was free of blemishes, cuts, anything he could really sink his teeth into and run with, but he’d get a better look at him once they were both seated. He excused himself with an awkward nod and left the entryway, went to the kitchen and poured out two cups of tea, pouring out cream and a little bowl of sugar. Mrs. Hudson would be beside herself when she figured out he’d taken it with him during his little disappearing act but felt unmoved by her plight. She probably had dozens of sets in storage. This was just his favorite one.
Without looking at Loki, he placed it on the low dining room table between the two of them and put his violin back in the case without closing it as he sat down and settled in.
He looked up at Loki suddenly, as if remembering something truly earth-changing and said, “Spoons. It’s always something.” With that, he disappeared back into the kitchen and placed two spoons on the tray, clasped his hands together and stared expressionless at Loki. It was so much easier when the client came in, bursting to speak. It left him with a job to attend to instead of trying to engage in awkward pleasantries.