The Ring Finger
part sevenThe rest of the day was more or less a complete wash. John drank water and swallowed pills but couldn't be bothered to do much else. Even after the throbbing stopped and the pain faded away, his head still felt jumbled and untidy with all manner of annoyances thrown about. He'd kissed his best friend, after all--his husband. There wasn't supposed to be a difference between the two but when it came to kissing there certainly was. One wasn't supposed to snog their best friend. And with Sherlock home, entertaining himself with something quiet on the floor below, there wasn't exactly a wealth of time to put together a decent explanation. It would be far too awkward to pretend it hadn't happened so he needed to come up with something to say, preferably something that didn't include the bit where he lost nearly all cognitive abilities the moment he realized the other man was rather gorgeous.
That in itself was headache worthy. John wasn't blind; he knew his friend was generally attractive. He had an odd face that could be too wide and fleshy, trapped between serpentine and horse-like if viewed at just the wrong angle with the wrong shadows and lighting. He could look absolutely alien sometimes. There was just something about his face that could very easily put people off. And then sometimes, at just the right angle with just the right everything, he was absolutely enchanting. Disarmingly so. It was all in the eyes, really. When his eyes were large and glowing, he could take John's breath away. When they were small and piercing, he tipped the scales in the other direction. But he was generally handsome either way, averaging out the extremes into the normal face that expressed both joy and superiority. John didn't have a problem admitting that he'd noticed his best friend was an attractive male specimen. What did seem to be the problem, though, was that his actions made it seem as though he'd gone from knowing he was to actually being attracted to him.
He could reason he was attracted to the more feminine aspects of his looks, perhaps. Large, doe eyes were certainly attributed more to women than men and the curve of Sherlock's ass--yes, he'd noticed--was a very nice shape in contrast to his narrow hips and in following the curve of his lower back. And, of course, there were those lips that couldn't be more pronounced if he lined and painted them. He was fairly certain Sherlock wouldn't be too distressed to know under the right conditions he might be able to pass for a woman if the subject was exceedingly drunk. Might help with a case someday. One never knew. It still didn't feel the the appropriate sort of explanation for the worst kiss to ever be forced upon another man but John was rather out of ideas.
Maybe he was just taking the whole marriage thing too seriously. Yes, that was it. That made sense. That fit. He'd not been able to get a girl for the exact same reason so the marriage was really the thing at fault. What he needed to do was take the damn ring off and stop playing games with serious business. And he would do. Later. If he took it off now he'd probably just lose it so better to wait and put it away nicely. Somewhere. He'd figure it out. Tomorrow. Probably.
Not that tomorrow was going to be allowed to come peacefully. As he laid in bed on top of his blankets, John could feel as much as hear heavy footsteps running up towards his room. They were the only warning before an even heavier knock rattled his door. John rolled his face into his pillow with an exaggerated groan. No. No no no. Of all the--
"Client," Sherlock announced from the other side, knocking again without hesitation. "Are you still useless?"
"Yes!" he shouted, then thought better of it. "What sort of client?"
"Male, late fifties, affluent and keen to show it off. Something was stolen, I imagine. If it was a personal problem, he wouldn't be so obvious about visiting a private detective. As it is he's hardly being discrete about paying his cabby from a Ferragamo wallet."
"Five then, you recon?" he asked, forcing himself slowly to sit as he waited to see what part of him would most revolt against the idea. His stomach growled instead having been well empty most of the afternoon. It was a good sign.
Sherlock was obviously leaning against the door for the amount of reverb his voice caught as it passed through. "Probably not even a two. He's got money; going to me is a status symbol above seeking police help. Ten quid says I can solve it without leaving the flat."
John didn't much care for those odds. He got to his feet and walked to the door, bare soles slapping against the wood where the rug did not stretch. He was still wearing last night's clothes though his jeans had twisted oddly around his hips with the line of buttons on his shirt following in the curved path to the right. He shifted his clothing around until they were back in proper fashion then opened the door to find the not at all surprising sight of Sherlock's neck and unbuttoned burgundy collar as he stood in the now open entry. John adjusted his line of sight as well, frowning thoughtfully at the offer. "I'm not taking ten quid on a two. I can practically do a two myself," he said, scratching at the back of his head as his scalp tightened in the absence of his pillow's warmth.
Sherlock was not even attempting to hide the smirk that played brightly across his features. "You can make the tea then while I make a point of calling out his personal problems as punishment for wasting our time."
He was still beautiful. That was troubling. It was also easily forgotten as John shrugged and took the stairs down behind him, Mrs. Hudson bringing up their client from below as they met on the landing. Sherlock gave a large, fake smile and welcomed him into the den while John excused himself to the kitchen. They were terrible people, sometimes; absolutely terrible excuses for professional entrepreneurs. But John happily got the tea while the man told his story and said not a word as Sherlock described the man's impotency and failure to please three separate mistresses. Neither of them bothered to do much else but enjoy the sputtering outrage and immanent dismissal as the gentleman loudly left with his displeasure designed to be overheard and therefore pointless in their limited company. John chuckled and handed over Sherlock's mug, not even having bothered to pretend in making one for their guest as he flopped down into his customary throne.
"Do I get points for having figured out it was one of his mistresses and not his wife?" John asked, crossing his legs at the knee as he felt himself become more human with a hot tea, a smile, and a laugh to clear the stagnation of his addled fortitude.
Sherlock shrugged. "Seeing as we don't operate on a point scale, feel free to award yourself as many as you like. Only right and wrong matter."
"Ten points to me, then."
"Are there any reductions made in light of excessive libation or are you scored better because of the handicap?"
John scowled into his mug. "Okay, five point penalty for being useless most of the day," he countered, not impressed with the somewhat forced attempt to lead the conversation to the previous night. So much for not mentioning it. Not that it could possibly remain unmentioned, and John knew that. He'd expected as much. The client had really only given Sherlock the excuse to drag him down from his room in the first place. Neither of them gave a damn about some missing diamonds. It was all about getting them in the room together with as little awkwardness as possible. To that effect, John almost had to hand it to him. This felt... easy. Lighthearted. It didn't feel like the set up for an apology in the least and so the frown fell and a wincing smile took its place as John settled again with his legs parted, elbows bracing against once each. "Sorry, by the way. For being useless," he said, leaning forward with his mug clasped between his hands.
Sherlock shrugged, as much accepting the apology as waving it aside as unwarranted. "You don't normally come home having drank that much. Must have been a rough night."
John tapped his fingers against the ceramic. "Yeah. Made a mistake. Ended up, uh... I don't know. Sort of just.... took the marriage too seriously." He shrugged, looking down at the milky contents of his mug, happy he could not see his face reflected back. He would have loved to have lied had there not been a very good reason why he couldn't. This wasn't really about being drunk--it was about what he'd done during. He cleared his throat. "But, uh... I mean, being married isn't the problem; I am. I just need to stop thinking traditionally. But, I mean... that's why.. that happened."
"Because you were thinking traditionally," Sherlock repeated, brow raised.
John hated when he did that. The slight indignation was almost enough to make him feel less awkward. "Yeah. I felt guilty about trying to pull at the bar as a married man. Drunk and guilty and, uh... frustrated. So, uh.. sorry. About... that."
Sherlock looked at him, and for a moment John worried he was going to work the conversation around until John flat out said what exactly what it was he was apologizing for. They both knew. Perhaps it was good manners to spell it out but it was hardly necessary. For all the good the man had done in setting up a relatively easy atmosphere, his curious expressions and blinking stare were not in the least helping move things along in that continuing direction. John hid his lips behind the rim of his mug as he waited out the pause, Sherlock all too easily staring right at him, into him, with the searching stare he usually leveled at a client with all its limitless intensity. There was green in his eyes again--much more green than blue. John wondered if there was a clue to his thoughts in the shifting colors of his eyes.
Sherlock shrugged as he leaned back into his chair, looking away in disinterest as he melted into the green leather with his mug. "Well, it's interesting to know there exist circumstances under which you'd fancy me," he said, his eyes betraying his smirk.
John jumped with a contained laugh, breathing out through his nose as his lips pulled thin. "I was going to thank you for how well you handled it all but I have a feeling you're just going to hold this over me for the rest of my life."
"Why would you think that, sugarlips?"
"Oh, I don't know, darling. Call it a hunch."
Sherlock chuckled, his eyes highlighted in lines as his smooth face scrunched with laughter. John tried not to do the same but it remained an exercise in futility. Okay, so maybe things weren't as tense and awkward as he'd thought they were. Less than twenty-four hours and it was already a joke. He sort of loved that about them. Sometimes flippancy made light of real issues but for things like this, John much preferred laughing it off over serious discussion.
It was in part because of the lightness of the afternoon's tone that John didn't think anything about the fact that Sherlock's left ring finger was naked. There was any number of things he could have been doing before noticing a client was soon to arrive that would have found it left behind. John didn't even bother imagining it left on a table, on a counter, on a music stand, or any other place to rest in waiting. He saw, he noticed, and then it didn't matter. They spent the afternoon and evening looking for real cases in their e-mail and scrolling through blog responses for something of actual interest to do. The ring didn't return. They ordered in for dinner and both gave their best attempts at guessing what the other's fortune cookie would say. The ring still did not make an appearance. Nor did it the next day.
Nor the next.