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Library [09/05]

After last week's busy shift in the library, and a particularly active week besides, Jono was very much not in a state of mind to go above and beyond the call for the job, today. He was here, and he was attempting to shelve things when he saw things that needed to be shelved, and now and again he'd pick up a rag and try to dust.

But, well, he never got too far in any one task, because there were some very industrious helping hands hanging around, grabbing books and rags and anything else that he could get into before he could get into very much at all. And then patting him on the shoulder or the head or the ankle, wherever a disembodied hand happened to be able to reach from their particular vantage point, and pointing back toward the desk.

He would have decided that they were being condescending, if not for the fact that he was fairly inclined to just sit and do a whole lot of nothing in particular today anyhow.

[Open!]

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Sherlock rolled his eyes. "A horrible thing to want. You may as well want to die."

Ooooover dramaaaaatic.

//I would settle for being left alone,// Jono replied, narrowing his eyes a bit.

Emo Jono had gotten tired of being emo all week, and was making a left-turn into grumpy territory today.

"Easily accomplished, as we both know." Yeah right. Like it really was.

Oh, absolutely. As they both knew.

//What would it take t'get you to go away?//

Sherlock just smiled.

//I hate you.//

Jono just felt as though he needed to share that. In case Sherlock didn't already know.

//I hate you a lot.//

"Yes, yes. Very good." Oh, like he cared how people thought of him.

Jonothon was trying very hard not to let himself get too annoyed, now. Good things never came of Jonothon when he was annoyed. But there was no work on his desk for him to throw himself into, and the last thing he wanted to do was read from that bloody stupid book at the moment, and so all there was for him to do was sit, direct a nasty look at the top of his desk, and simmer.

... Possibly literally, if the curl of frustrated smoke that crept up around his face was any indication. Damn you, Sherlock. Damn you.

"You're smoking," Sherlock informed him gleefully.

//Sod off.//

Jono was terribly mature about this. You could tell. Easily. By the fact that he was now pulling his jacket up around his face with one hand, and giving Sherlock a middle-finger salute with the other.

Edited 2010-09-05 18:38 (UTC)

And that was the moment Sherlock's phone chose to ring.

After all, John had known Sherlock for long enough to know that he abhorred phone calls; which meant that if you actually wanted any kind of information out of him at all, you phoned, rather than texted.

It was an elaborate system.

Which actually distracted Sherlock from the task at hand in order to see just who would be calling him. Texts, people! He only responded to te--

"John? Why are you calling me?" he demanded into the phone.

He got lucky.

John? Watson?

Jono had never before in his life felt so inclined to kiss a bloke full on the lips as he did just then. Fortunately for John, there was more working in his favour than the distance afforded by the telephone, in that regard.

But it was a distraction. A glorious distraction, and enough of one, at least, for him to manage to relax somewhat.

Because it was John, not because it was luck; though John also knew that if he called and Sherlock refused to pick up, something more was going on, something worrisome.

Again, it was a complicated system, but it worked.

"My Portalocity trip was overbooked," he said, glancing up at the ceiling. "I seem to be stuck in Istanbul. How are things?"

He might not be a master deducer, but he knew Sherlock well enough to read the potential trouble level out of his answer. To a point, at least.

"Fine. Perfectly fine," Sherlock replied, tapping his fingers on the desk. "I'm at the library."

See, nothing could go wrong there.

"When will you be arriving? There is a panda at the store and we're out of milk."

Perhaps it was fortunate at this particular moment that Jono was physically incapable of just bursting out laughing.

That statement had sounded entirely too much like a typical 'and honey, while you're on the way home...'

... With the exception of the panda. That bit was new.

And so he didn't laugh. But he did look amused. Intrigued, even. This was an aspect of the Holmes/Watson dynamic that had never really been mentioned in the biographies.

"In two days," John said, mildly. "It is your turn to buy the milk, remember?"

After a beat, he added, "...When was the last time you had dinner?"

Sherlock, don't look so put out. Perhaps the panda would be part of a mystery!

"Yesterday sometime." Possibly. It could have been Friday. "Before my class at the least. Two days? Can't you have them hurry up with your flight?"

Somewhere under the desk, Jono was now waving at one of the hands, and then telepathically informing it in a one-on-one psionic conversation that he would be most appreciative if it happened to start taking notes on this phone call.

Because... Because. Honestly, now. This was golden.

"No, I cannot have them hurry up, Sherlock," John replied, with a sigh. "Promise me you'll call for Chinese take-out tonight?"

Library. Hadn't Sherlock texted him from the library a week ago, talking about some aide or another?

... Oh dear.

Of course not! Nooo. No. No no.

Moving on.

"They don't even manage a proper prawn toast," Sherlock insisted as though Jono didn't exist. It was, possibly, because there was no way for him to feel embarrassed about this. Or he forgot Jono was there.

Damn you, John.

And really, if Jono wasn't so busy doing absolutely nothing at all while being amused to no end by the half of the conversation that he could hear, it probably would have even occurred to him that he was totally able to flee just then.

As it stood, no, there was no fleeing to be had, because Holmes seemed to be having a terribly domestic conversation with his Watson, and Jonothon was busy being a horrible snoop.

"You need to eat," John informed him, "Just get the take-out, all right? I'll get the milk in exchange."

A beat.

"Am I to take from this that you're talking--" Harassing. "--to the library aide again?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied as though there was no other option. "And no, I didn't break him. He was--smoking for a bit, though."

"Smoking," John said. He could only wish that even sounded dubious, these days. "Right. Can I speak to him, please?"

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