- Lift leg over back of chair
- Resume eye contact
- Carry on the conversation as if you didn’t just sit down in the most boss way possible
alistair getting an effusive letter from a verbose fan, not realizing until the end with “signed Sherlock Holmes, aged ten” that it’s actually the most precocious kid he’s ever encountered, showing it off to his wife and putting it in a safe place
pre-teen sherlock noticing alistair’s name listed in an ad for a small-time production of Waiting for Godot, dragging a semi-reluctant mycroft along, waiting outside after the play, thrilled beyond the telling of it when alistair remembers his letter, remembers him
alistair noticing right off, because of his actor’s eye for body language, how sad and attention-starved this boy is, offering private lessons in reaction to his non-stop questions on what else is in his repertoire besides the yorkshire dialect from the radio program and the irish brogue he put on for the play
sherlock consciously scheduling his lessons several days after returning from school breaks, not wanting alistair to see the bruises and maybe think less of him for them
sherlock, high off solving a difficult case, taking alistair from an after-party to the tattoo parlor to get the ink covering his scar, telling him about the time he broke his arm and hid it from his father for almost a week
alistair trying and failing and trying again to reconnect with his son, mostly for his own reasons but partially because he doesn’t want to be the failure sherlock has described
sherlock meeting jeremy by chance and being completely incapable of sympathizing, unable to reconcile the alistair who has always been there for him with one who has a son angry at him for some very good reasons
sherlock cutting himself off mid-sentence to stop up a nosebleed, not looking surprised at all, scoffing at alistair’s sigh of “I do hope you know what you’re doing”, and responding with “Have we only just met? Now, about this case…”
sherlock seeing alistair right after an exchange with rhys, exploding at alistair’s concern, revealing that he’s known for years about alistair’s problem yet never said a word and would appreciate the same courtesy, especially since for him it’s not a problem
alistair sending very carefully worded emails after his move to new york, trying to find out what sherlock’s been up to without setting him off again, dismayed when the replies start getting rarer and less coherent
sherlock stumbling out of his dealer’s apartment building, knowing he overdid it, their cries of how he shouldn’t be alone ringing in his ears, the address coming almost unbidden to his lips as he gets in the taxi
alistair flushing sherlock’s heroin with shaking hands, resolved never to allow sherlock to apologize for seeking him out that night, if that apology should ever be attempted
"Shallots, huh? You gettin’ fancy on me, Miss Watson?"
She waves the knife at him in a lazy way, before turning back to the cutting board. “Don’t call me ‘Miss Watson’. And it’s just soup, babe. Fancier than ordering pizza at 2am at the station, maybe.”
Marcus gets up from the dining table, walks up behind her, puts his hands on her hips and kisses her neck right above the tied bow of her apron. “Stop that,” she murmurs, but not before he can feel her shiver slightly. It’s her favourite spot.
"Stop what? This?"
"Maaaarcus… I have a knife in my hand, you know."
"You threatenin’ me?" He reaches up, undoes her ponytail, and then pulls her hips closer to his.
"I’m saying… I’m saying, you shouldn’t be distracting me. I could cut my finger off."
"You were a doctor, weren’t you? You’re supposed to have steady hands."
Without warning, she puts the knife down, pushes the cutting board away, and turns around. He smiles down at her, the tip of his nose barely grazing hers. She smiles back and deftly undoes his fly with one hand, reaching inside.
"Steady hands, right?"
Joan laughs at his discomposure, trailing off into a breathy sigh as he kisses her, hard, the kitchen counter digging into her back. She breaks away just long enough to suggest what else she could do with her hands, before he picks her up and lays her down on the table, shallots forgotten entirely.