Well, this was different. It was clear Loki was no client of his so he fought the urge to tell him he’d made a dreadful mistake and had to leave right away to get the information he desperately needed to conduct a full, proper investigation of these nigh-inexplicable things, these inconsistencies, the scratch on the album. Sherlock loved things that were out of place, he’d made a life of seeking those things out specifically, but only because he could right them again. He didn’t really stop to consider what would happen if the fly in the ointment remained, unknowable, the sickness untreatable. It was best not to assume that would be the case, given his history and track record with ‘inexplicable’ phenomena, there was an explanation to it all, to everything. It was his life’s work to find it.
Though Sherlock’s face betrayed nothing, just as he’d trained it to, his eyes were fixed on Loki and he this distinct feeling in the pit of his stomach that perhaps he’d invited the wrong person into his home and given his address too freely. He let his hands unclasp and fall to his sides. But he was used to that possibility, after all, his address was public when he lived on Baker Street with John, it was the only way to have a private space to conduct meetings with clients, so he’d always been aware of the chance that should that address fall into the hands of the wrong person the danger would be imminent and the stakes, high. They risked their lives to do what they did. That’s why they both had the time of their lives doing it.
“Think nothing of it,” he replied, eyes trained as if he were watching a wolf wading through a flock of sheep, expressionless, vigilant. It was when Loki went to touch the violin that he made a step towards him, a flicker of distinct displeasure in his blue-green eyes, one of his hands curling into a fist behind his back. That was a Con Fuoco violin and the nearest thing he had to a comfort blanket in this flat. It both freed his mind to process as he pleased and tapped into parts of his knowledge bank that could only be access when his brain was stimulated properly. Things would get very ugly if Loki had it in mind to damage the instrument and he knew a power-play when he saw it. The other man had identified a pressure point of his by hearing how engrossed he was in playing it and was attempting to… threaten him? That, of course, was nothing new. Threats were a matter of fact, an expected hazard in his line of business but a threat to the rare items he actually cared about couldn’t be overlooked.
As soon as Loki’s fingers were off the violin and back safely in his line of sight, he moved for it. Long, quick strides guided him around the other figure and he said nothing of his intentions, didn’t even indicate he’d heard him at all until he’d shut the case with a little more force than he’d normally use, hands flying to close the clasps almost unnaturally quickly. With that, he turned to Loki with a strained, close-lipped little smile (not having any regard for physical space, per usual, they only stood a couple of inches apart).
“I did,” he said simply, feigning ease in his tone. “There’s apparently a lot to speak about given what you wrote.” There was something dark about this man, he only recognized it because of the darkness that teemed just below his own surface. He was insecure about something, so attempted to assert dominance by making thinly veiled threats to what they cared for. “So, why don’t we find our seats? It’s much more comfortable to speak that way. To encourage us both to be at our most candid and keep well within each other’s sight.” He nearly spit out the end of the sentence, letting Loki know that he couldn’t be cowed and he was standing his ground. Respect earned respect in turn and that was how he intended to do this. Sherlock was no stranger to pride, had been accused of vanity more times than he could count. It took one to know one.