Crouch Touch Pause Engage

About that which has been preying on my mind. Not that I have any time to write fanfic, mind, but...

"I still don't know how you managed it."
"John. Are you really so obtuse? You saw it with your own eyes, if you'd have used them to observe and not just see. And I've told you a dozen times. The lorry, the cyclist..."
"No, not your magic trick."
"What, then?"
"You can't yet use your powers of observation to read my mind? Well, thank God for that."
"Must you be so opaque?"
"Must you be so bloody annoying?"
"You don't know how I managed what? Do I have to say please to get you to answer?"
"I don't know how you managed to get me to fall in love with you."

You can tell I have a new fandom interest as I have brainworm stories again and can't do what I'm supposed to be doing until I get this done.

Title: The part he saves for you alone
Characters: Holmes, Watson, OMC (modern version)
Disclaimer: I have my own detective boys so I just borrow this pair.

Sherlock was out last night. Your shoulder was bloody agony so you’d made your apologies and gone to bed on a wave of diclofenac and codeine.

There’s a young man in the kitchen, this morning; just in his boxer shorts, looking a bit nervous and more than a bit embarrassed. Looks like a student – could almost be you, in your second year at Bart’s, if you squint a little.

You make coffee and put on some toast – no chance that Sherlock’s going to bother, even for a guest. He’s up; you can hear him in the bathroom, from which he soon emerges, elegantly dishevelled and making a beeline for the coffee. He pours himself a cup, thanks you in an offhand way then launches into a monologue about someone he saw at the restaurant last night.

You get the full works, the whole sequence of deductions that came from a chance encounter. You get them, while the third man, the ghost at the banquet, sips his coffee and looks on in awe. Besotted. Bedazzled.

Whatever he got from Sherlock last night, or whatever he gave, you get the man himself.