𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄, sherlock holmes

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈 . . . EAT, SLEEP, PARTY, REPEAT!

LATE-LUNCH AT THE RESTAURANT of the hotel had been both a tense and silent affair, with Poppy regretting ever bringing up Moriarty's name in the first place as she scanned the menu, fully confident that she would just order the same drink and meal she'd planned on before they'd had to leave in a flurry of words and deductions. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had sat on the other side of the table in a sulky silence, running his finger tip over the small glass of water he'd poured for himself. He didn't even open the menu to pretend to be interested in the printed words, or to make a comment about the prices the restaurant were charging for their food.

When Poppy's stuffing and turkey sandwich had arrived, she'd beckoned the waiter closer to her face with a curled finger and asked for a glass of tonic water with ice but no lemon and for the bill to be handed to her once she and Sherlock were ready to leave. The detective sat opposite her was still silent and staring hard at the wooden knots running over the surface of the table, and watched a singular drop of condensation dribble down the side of the new drink that'd been slid infront of him. He looked at Poppy over the rim with a raised eyebrow, and she mimicked his expression with a playful glance over the top of her own drink.

"I was fine with water." He murmured, lips barely parting to utter the words. But still, he sat back in his chair for the first time since the subject of Moriarty had been approached with his fingers steepled under his chin. Sherlock was leaning back so far that Poppy had lost sight of his head and could only see the long, pale and now unblemished expanse of his neck as he stretched out over the back of the chair, returning to an upright position with a loud exhale.

Poppy set down half of her sandwich to pour a small drop more of gravy over the bread and pointed to Sherlock's neck as she wiped away at the drop of gravy that was clinging on to the lip of the boat with great effort. "I see that's healed nicely." She was pointing to the white scratch mark that was barely visible anymore on his throat after the explosion at Baker Street. "Yes," He swallowed thickly as she brought her fingertip marked with gravy up to her lips, watching her tongue dart out to lick it away, "Though it was only a shallow graze so a short period of healing time was to be expected. Is that nice?" Sherlock made a vague gesture in the general direction of her plate.

"Rather." She hummed, finishing the last few bites of her sandwich with a content smile as the waiter strode to their table to place down a cocktail glass infront of her. With a puzzled, 'thanks' she took it from his hands and pushed her plate away with her napkin tossed over the surface haphazardly. "I didn't order this," spinning it around by the stem.

Taking note of her sceptically, Sherlock took it upon himself to comment. "No, but I did when you went to the bathroom to re-do your hair." Subconsciously, Poppy's hands shot upwards to mess with her fringe, parting it down the middle and then tucking it behind her ears again. "It's perfectly safe to drink if that's what you're worried about."

With narrowed eyes, still disbelieving, Poppy raised the glass up to her lips to take a long sip. She sat in silence for a few moments, swirled the drink around in the glass, and downed the rest of it in one go. "It's nice." She confirmed, following on with, "Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?"