lostwithoutmyblogger | russian nesting dolls of aus.

russian nesting dolls of aus.

He falls asleep so late it's already the next day, with sun streaming through the hotel curtains, turning the drying blood a speckly orange. When he wakes up again, past noon, he stretches, and then pads into the bathroom to check on his mouth and hands.

Cloud was exactly right; he'll heal fine. He'll look a little strange for a day or two, but the criss crossed lattice on his tongue is already all but invisible. It takes worrying the inside of his bottom lip hard between his teeth before he tastes the first tang of blood there. His eyes close, and his forehead drops against the glass, and he goes to order room service again.

Tea. Soup. A fluffy looking coconut pie. (Why does he always crave sweets so deperately afterwards? He's going to turn into Mycroft. But indulging himself in his every whim post-scene is one of The Rules. And so is the text he sends, once the email is in him.

Mild subdrop. Not dead. Injuries minded, all well.
-SH

There would normally also be an appropriately ritualistic 'thank you' in there, but his wits are enough about him to remember that it would not be appreciated. The expressed preference of his play partner overwrites the old rule, even if it leaves him feeling vaguely ungracious and insubordinate.

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The response came relatively quickly.

Good to hear. Got you a second extra day, checkout was supposed to be 2 hours ago.

He's startled to get a reply, and is already haphazardly packing when he texts back.

Thank you.

It seems more appropriate now, that it's for the consideration.

There was about sixty seconds of delay, Cloud had hesitated before typing.

I just pulled into the hotel garage. I came to check on you. If you're busy I can leave, just wanted to make sure you were okay.

I'm busy, but you can come in.

He confesses, seconds later, without thinking. He should really hesitate more. But his things are thrown into a small case, his laptop is out, he's already in to the next crime. The dishes from breakfast have been cleared away already, his curls are damp from the shower.

He finds himself waiting, a touch breathless, for his knock.

A knock which comes a bit too quickly for a trip from the garage. Cloud's costume today, clothes fresh off the rack yet again, was jeans and a black button down shirt. He had been in the garage recently, but all evidence suggested that he had been sitting in the lobby for a good twenty minutes and had just stood up to come upstairs to the room.

When the door opened, Cloud fixed his eyes on Sherlock's to search for clues about his emotional state.

Sherlock opens the door for him, and doesn't comment on the lie. It makes him more unpredictable, more dangerous.

A shudder goes through him head to toe, but he gives him one of his polite, glib smiles.

"Good afternoon, Cloud." He's fine. More sensitive than normal, but soldiering on. He sees his eyes searching, and reassures him. "I can crash dreadfully, but I haven't."

Maybe it's the formalness of Sherlock's attitude which tickled Cloud's Yankee sensibilities, but he smiled in happy amusement. "I guess I was just being paranoid?"

Cloud really didn't do this kind of thing with strangers. He had certainly fretted at the first weak evidence that there was a problem and would continue to fret until reassured more completely. He reached gloved hand out (a different pair of gloves, he never seemed to be without them) toward Sherlock and said, "Can I come in? If you're busy I won't stay long."

"Please, join me. I've just had a fresh pot sent up."

And he can get a second mug from the counter. He moves to get them both fresh tea. His movements lack a little bit of the barely contained spring from yesterday, but his injuries are so minor they're completely unencumbered. If his hands are stinging at all, it doesn't show in the determination with which he pours.

"You're very considerate. I wasn't expecting a reply."

As much as Cloud had described himself as a professional and implied that he was an old veteran of the kink scene, and as much as he seemed to have unique skills to back up the claim, the look of worried surprise on his face was utterly naive. He ignored the tea and searched Sherlock's expression further.

"Why not?"

In the sunlight, Cloud's eye color looked rather odd.

"You don't owe me anything."

Sherlock, on the other hand, is very much lacking certain elements of etiquette. He has never really been in the scene per se, come into contact with it only glancingly through an ex-top. That relationship was complicated, borderline combative, and not precisely a good learning experience when it came to S&M as a subculture and community.

"Is it something people do?"

"No, I don't owe you anything, and you don't owe me anything either." Ignoring Sherlock's lack of invitation to touch, Cloud gently tried pulling the detective into his arms. "Maybe 'people' do things like that, but I don't. I'm sorry if that bothers you."

His hair was odd, too. Blond hair, and he was definitely a natural blond, shouldn't have strands that thick. Human hair generally didn't. It would be worth running a hand through it to collect some loose strands for analysis later.

He will- after he recovers from the violent start at the abrupt contact. Cloud should recall that the last person who touched him without warning got a drink dumped on them. But when his heart is out of his throat, he slides a cautious arm about his shoulders, fingertips trailing gently through the hair at the base of his neck.

Peering into his eyes, as though searching for emotion- or maybe just signs of whatever caused them to develop this way.

"I can adjust to this expectation."

It had to be chemical, perhaps copper sulfate? Were those actually mineral deposits scattered densely over his irises? Copper sulfate would have dissolved in the vitreous humor and rendered him utterly blind with horrible cataracts.

Cloud was startled in return by the reaction but it didn't make him let go. Instead he held more gently and petted Sherlock's hair in an attempt to soothe him. "Whoa. You really don't let people touch you at all, do you? Not normally I mean."

"It isn't something I have a great deal of room for in my day."

He confesses, settling himself down a little at the touch, distracted momentarily from his impossible eyes by the way something in his chest constricts. Perhaps he was a little more affected by the play than he'd originally realized, because the sudden proximity, the support of the gesture, sends him still and thoughtful.

Cloud tucked his face against Sherlock's shoulder, ending the examination of his eyes. It was clear from the reaction, though it would be too subtle for most to notice, that Sherlock was still a bit strung out. "Do you have time to lie down for a little while?"

"My flight isn't for another seven hours."

He admits, one gentlemanly hand setting on the small of Cloud's back, the greatest liberty he's comfortable taking.

"I'm yours until then."

Telling language, quite unconscious.

The words gratify and relax Cloud quite a bit and he holds Sherlock close. "How about tea in bed?"

"All right."

He agrees, hanging on for the moment, taking a deep, curious breath against Cloud's unusual hair. He's curious about everything, even how he smells.

He smells like shampoo, clean clothing, soap, and there's something missing. Something that has no right to be missing, something so normal that it's tough to pinpoint what it might be.

Cloud pulls away slowly, his touch lingering, and then he reaches for the tea and mugs to carry them toward the bed. He's quite careful with them, the way he's oddly careful with most physical objects. Maybe he has trouble judging his grip through the gloves? Maybe his hands are even more scarred than the rest of his body?

"Still in the mood for lots of sugar?"

He's going to work out what. But first, he settles down on the bed obediently and curls up against the headboard, reaching to take the tea from him. He has plenty more time for observation.

"I take it with just cream, actually. But I've learned it helps forestall the worst of the crash. I'm usually more careful to eat beforehand, too- it keeps me on my feet a little longer. Obviously, the circumstances of the evening made that impossible."

"I should have stayed," he murmured, pouring himself a mug of tea and adding nothing to it before settling next to Sherlock, doing his best to fit their bodies together. "I wanted to, but you seemed to want to be alone."

Sweat. The salty tang of sweat and the associated trace aromatic compounds were absent, and not because he had just washed them off moments ago. Would his skin taste normal?

"If you had stayed, I would have done everything in my power to escape you."

He predicts, with an arch little smile, settling down into him tentatively, trying to force himself to get used to the contact. It's the issue of breathing that troubles him the most. Finding a natural rhythm isn't easy.

"Thank you."

"Well then I guess it's good that I didn't try." He laughed, slightly. "After the first several hours, at least." Cloud tipped his mug up to drink. At least that seemed completely normal.

"If you want, I can move. I can't tell if more touch is a good thing or bad thing for you right now."

"Stay."

Because he can look better like this. And maybe because he doesn't... hate this as much as he thought he might.

"Could you manage the bulk of the conversation, do you think?"

He laughed, setting his mug on the side table and shifting so he was the one against the backboard and Sherlock was lying back against his chest. "You want to hear me talk? I guess I can do that. What should I talk about?"

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