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punchmeitssubtextSherlock Holmes did not, as a general rule, remember birthdays or favorite colors or even a handful of the major holidays. His concept of time was skewed and his understanding of interpersonal relationships relied almost entirely on biological markers and verbal cues. He hated parties. He hated people insisting on traditions. He hated the assumption people made that holidays meant you automatically violated your own privacy and spilled your innermost thoughts.
And yet.
And yet here he was at Angelo's, watching the thin icicles on the window-frame shimmer in the headlights of passing cars.
This is mad, John had said, that first morning after, and he couldn't disagree. It made him a little angry, almost, a little upset that his own comfortable view of the world had been so skewed by a single outside influence.
But it still felt better than the drugs or the cigarettes or even most of the case work.
So he waited.
And yet.
And yet here he was at Angelo's, watching the thin icicles on the window-frame shimmer in the headlights of passing cars.
This is mad, John had said, that first morning after, and he couldn't disagree. It made him a little angry, almost, a little upset that his own comfortable view of the world had been so skewed by a single outside influence.
But it still felt better than the drugs or the cigarettes or even most of the case work.
So he waited.
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Date: 2012-02-05 03:23 am (UTC)He strode back to the table, downed his entire glass of wine in about two gulps, then grabbed John by the hand. His social skills might leave a lot to be desired, but at least he had some sense of when to leave.
John's phone buzzed again. Mycroft. Of course.
Ah, romance.