While she is ensconced in the bathroom, Sherlock tends the kettle and the hotplate. He is as adroit with the cup and saucer as he is with his chemical bottles; his hands move about like those of a magician. Soon there are two cups of an acrid, bracing brew on a small wooden tea table. Two chairs -- their cushions threadbare but functional -- sit facing the tea. The moon has long ago dipped beneath the horizon, and the room is lit by he glow of a single lamp in the corner. It might be romantic -- were the threat of imminent death and dismemberment not inexorably present.
When she emerges, Sherlock is standing, his tea cupped gingerly between his long fingers.
"We're safe here until morning," he says, "then we'll move."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2020-09-09 01:04 am (UTC)When she emerges, Sherlock is standing, his tea cupped gingerly between his long fingers.
"We're safe here until morning," he says, "then we'll move."