cruciverbalist | _openpost.exe

Irene texts him an address a few weeks later, and a time.

Half of the time, her appointments have their courage fail at this point. She can assess and vet and try to keep as careful a client list as possible, but it's near impossible to predict who will and will not have the courage to go through with showing up.

For some reason, though, she has no doubts he'll be there. He'd seemed faintly... desperate, somehow. Irene wants to sink her teeth in.

No, Sherlock is far too intrigued. It haunted his dreams when his work did not. He was itchy for it - for something to sink it's teeth in to him. A desire he could never quite explain although he would list many reasons. Many delusive. Did there need to be reason to desire? He would ache to say yes, Sherlock is not an irrational sort, everything has reason. The reason is, desire. There is an inexplainable high, a profound feeling of liberation when everything had been taken from you.

Not to mention his longing to solve what seems unsolvable. He is on time, right on time actually when her doorbell rings. Not even a second late, he'd made sure to be perfectly punctual. More than prepared to ingest every last detail he spots about her and her dwellings.

It isn't a home, precisely; not this floor. She lives above. This is a carefully anonymous space, reflecting nothing more than a fastidious care for her work, for her clients, for her equipment. Not that much of it is out here; that comes when they get a little deeper.

"Mister Holmes."

She gives away a little more today; good taste, a preference for rosewater.

Something of a grin finds his lips. Of course it would be. He still aches for that tiny slip up, but she was still laced tight and accordingly.

"Mistress," in greeting. "If you prefer." He can't help being slightly cocky. Eyes traveled from her to the space. You don't need much to create a pain near unbearable.

Edited 2012-12-20 04:30 (UTC)

"Miss Adler."

She corrects him, quietly, but quite firmly. The 'mistress' bit is a little much for her.

"Come in. Make yourself at home, I'm not quite ready to begin."

He mused quietly to himself when she did so. Adler. Apt a last name, he thought. Sarcasm aside, he refines himself to some sort of maturity with a slight bow of his head and walks further inward.

"Of course, Miss Adler."

"Now, Mister Holmes, I thought today we'd see about some of the basics."

She says, heels clicking primly as she leads him onwards. They're bypassing the polite living room, going straight for her play space, which is soft red carpet and warm walls, burnished wood equipment.

Sherlock remains silent for the most part. He's more focused on detail. On her, the faint scent that surrounded her, the impeccable cleanliness of the room. He wondered, for a faint moment, if the well cared wood was cared for by guests. She almost seemed the type to keep someone for a day, have them do labor during 'breaks'.

"If I may, 'basics' has a very wide range of meaning." A brow rose. And so, what did yours mean, or were he to find out?

She does, in fact. She has a large range of men who come to her for a little domestic play; a beautiful cabinet member who likes nothing more than to stand at her sink with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and wash her dishes, and he does wood polishing too, but she won't mention that just yet.

"It does, doesn't it? Please undress as far as you're comfortable."

Polite, failing utterly to expand.

Yes, he would have thought so. Little slaves who like to escape their high-pressure, high-demand, too-complicated lives for classic domestication. For a lovely woman, no less. One of sharp and refined taste.

Comfortable is another one of those wide ranges. To him, he had little to hide body wise. fingers slipped the buttons loose and let it all slide off. He even folded, lightly, in his hand. Mainly untarnished skin aside from the ink that splattered in places only seen by being so exposed. Although if one was curious enough there was certainly displays of his habits. Scars that wouldn't go away.

The only piece of clothing he failed to remove was a sock. one sock. Perhaps a message, a meaning, or perhaps Sherlock was just being Sherlock. Also known as, a brat. He certainly didn't break easy, not that this would be a test to that -- and he was submissive but not to be confused with 'easy to handle' or excessively obedient. He liked to play.

"Where would you have me put them, then?"

Edited 2012-12-29 17:41 (UTC)

Irene's eyebrows lift in delight, and she picks up a cane, twirling it delicately between his fingertips.

"On the chair is fine, dear."

She'll take one foot, for the time being, until he chooses to reconsider.

"Though you're also welcome to pocket it. Sit wherever you'd like, let's have the sole."

He's managed to keep a straight face. Clear, calm, completely lacking of his own minor entertainment to do with this entire situation. It would fade soon upon keeping eye at that cane. Instead, he slides the haphazardly folded items onto an idle chair near the corner. He himself would far more prefer the chair with thick arms; something to grab.

Taking a seat, he permits the bare foot to her.

Irene slides to her knees behind him, and reaches to take his foot gently in her hands. Her touch begins as warm, exploring, thumb dragging a slow pattern up the sole. Almost massaging.

Except there's a pressure point just above the ball that her thumb finds, smartly. One that shoots right up the leg to the hip, will force a body flat if pressed hard enough.

Tony Stark did not need his girlfriend and ex-boss to get snippy with him when he calmly and quite rationally explained that he was utterly bored with all of the current Stark Industry projects. He really didn't need her comeback that if he didn't find something to keep him busy that she'd find something for him. And he certainly didn't need her to set him up on a "play date" with another genius in some vain attempt to make him "stop complaining for once in his spoiled life," her exact words.

And so, despite the fact that he didn't need any of these things, Tony found himself tapping his foot impatiently as he sat in a corner table at a Starbucks in midtown, waiting for a certain Sherlock Holmes to show his face. The Starbucks he was supposed to meet this supposed magician of logic in was as nondescript as any other coffeehouse in the city, overly-designed minimalism with pretentious art and even more pretentious art students in every corner. Tony was doing his best to ignore it all, tapping away at his Starkphone as he sipped at an eggnog latte, the only redeeming part of the Christmas season in his opinion.

He flipped to the calender of the phone, checking the clock for about the twentieth time in the last two minutes. Tony had only been fifteen minutes late, a minor miracle in his opinion, and so far this Holmes guy hadn't even shown his face. Some genius if he couldn't even tell the time. Not that Tony had bothered looking for him when he came in and got his coffee. If this Holmes was as good as Pep said, then he could find Tony himself.

It was a rare thing when Sherlock actually wanted to meet with someone. Not to say he had never experienced the desire. There was more than enough people in the world that had intrigue but they were rarer than the opposite. Nevertheless, he managed to wrap up a case and head off so fast Joan couldn't even catch him. She was, of course, unbearably curious but Sherlock, of course, wouldn't tell her.

He showed up twenty minutes pate looking horribly slapdash. A horrifying Christmas sweater, broken down jeans, just as busted shoes, old coat with that single shilling pin and red scarf. His hair just sort of everywhere. Come to think of it, considering the surrounding customers? Sherlock blended in great. He ordered a coffee, just a coffee, and made his way over. The cup hits the table with a small think and he's smiling a little awkwardly as his hand reached out to shake because for the first time in such a long time Holmes is nervous. Excitedly nervous. A chance to speak with THE Tony Stark? He wouldn't miss it for the world.

"Terribly sorry," comes the accent. "Finishing up a case. Murderers these days. No sense of proper timing. Sherlock Holmes."

'The' Tony Stark was decidedly less nervous about meeting someone who was, in all he has heard, a one-trick pony masquerading as a genius. Something that, as a certified real genius himself he took things like this quite seriously. One eyebrow arched over his sunglasses as he looks over the clear glass of the tablet phone at the disheveled man in front of him and the hand offered in greeting. Maybe this guy was a genius, or at least a mental case, both had a tendency to look a little homeless at times. And he had worn Armani today, albeit a more dressed down charcoal gray suit with white collared shirt. Beneath, his 1973 Led Zeppelin tour shirt--an original of course--only a hint of the red sky and blue blimp peeking out from the unbuttoned collar.

"Murderers, huh? Interesting company you keep, Mr. Holmes," He shrugged lightly, taking Sherlock's hand and shaking it firmly. After letting go, he motioned to the seat across from him, "Tony Stark. But I'm sure you knew that, being the genius at deduction that you are."

"Interesting company I keep off of New York's streets," correction; and he took this time when Tony stood to give him one look-over. Although it wasn't obvious, Sherlock was good at being extremely discrete when he was watching people. In a matter of seconds, Stark had already lived up to his facade. Arrogant, believing himself the better than most about him. Surely he's justified it with the fact that, out of the general population, his mental prowess is far beyond 99% of them. Yet he bragged it and people who bragged it often lacked something deeper. Compensation, and so what was Tony compensating for? Sherlock knew about Afghanistan, the turn from weaponry to clean energy, the war and his father Howard Stark. Of course he did, Holmes made a point to stalk those of his kin (interesting, intelligent, broken (addicts)).

What is Tony Stark if not for his intelligence? He has a way to woo, uses it less than he used to but still does, but does he care - at all - about any of the company he keeps at his side or in his bed? Unlikely. Can't stop thinking. PhDs in Physics and Electrical Engineering -- seemingly an insomniac with the amount of creation that comes from him annually.

He noted the cut of the suit jacket. The shirt, could distinguish it immediately. A classic rock fan. Vintage? Possibly, too early to tell. A need to keep appearance but the high-end labels aren't him, not really. And as for Sherlock? Well. Looking homeless and/or 'normal' befit him more than not. And what to tell from the shake? Well, Holmes' grip wasn't flimsy nor overdone. Firm just the same, a single shake. Strong, to the point. Then gone.

"I also deducted that beneath your rich exterior lies a man with very few meaningful connections; but those few are ones he'd die for. I'd wager you would take to bonding with your inventions before the people around you and that's not just because you invented them, you're not that vain you just pretend to be. It's because there's a lethally small margin of people who can keep your mind stimulated enough to fulfill what you need in a relationship or who see beneath your mask - Potts, for example. Which further then explains why you've taken to alcohol to sooth over that feeling of misplacement while remaining in character of the fun-loving party hound genius. No one wants to hear about yet another genius' life going down the toilet."

He sits, and links his hands on the table. Eyes not moving from the man across.

"That's far too typical, and the public doesn't want typical, and you," he makes a point with one finger, "hate the idea that there just might be other people out there in the world like you. You like the attention of being one of a kind because similar to all men and women who are gifted with heightened intelligence they traveled through life without a single friend. You intimidated most of your peers and they hated you for making them look dull so your intelligence went without praise. Instead it was feared. This was up until you realized you had a certain presence, likely in high-school. Using your happy-go-lucky charm and copious amounts of wealth you founded your mask."

He motions with his hand to the man.

"This new and improved Tony Stark. Billionaire philanthropist, and the bitter child bit the dust but he neve really did, did he? He just hid away from the public eye."

Sherlock nods to the shirt, "Original?"

Edited 2012-12-23 14:16 (UTC)

Tony is silent as he listens to his life story, not the specific events but the tone--the ostracism at MIT for being just a bit "too good," only solved by throwing himself into the limelight, into parties and blackout drinking--DUM-E, the only one who's never abandoned him for someone a little less broken, a little less intimidating--of course Tony had to create that sort of loyalty himself, or pay for it in the case of Pepper and Rhodey through favors, new tech, credit cards with no spending limits. He listens to another man tell him things about himself that no one should know--not the events themselves, but their motivations--and his expression grows noticeably colder. He isn't going to let Mr. Holmes think he's won this first round, and it's just rude to spill all your coffee date's secrets before they can even ask you about yours.

He closes a newspaper application on the tablet, open to the latest in Hammer Tech news, with a flick of his fingers as he sits across from Sherlock, taking a drag from his latte before he reaches up to pluck the sunglasses from his face, folding them and hooking the earpiece into the pocket of his suit. He leans back, body language laid back yet alert, shoulders squared and head cocked slightly to the side.

"I'm impressed, but you forgot genius playboy in that little catchphrase.

I'm impressed that a man like you picked up a tabloid in the past three months. Sun Times? World News? People, despite their stellar reputation, did a rather extensive spread on my 'womanizing ways,' my 'alcoholism,' and how they're breaking Pep's heart.

You're not nearly as good as you think you are, Mr. Holmes. I didn't go to high school. Skipped straight to MIT, graduated Maxima Cum Laude when I was 17," Tony laughs dryly, a wave of his hand dismissing the genius's deductions even as that dismissal only makes their accuracy far more clear to anyone able to read between the lines--like Holmes himself.

"And of course it's original. I don't settle for knock-offs, counterfeits, or cheap party tricks," Tony can't help one last jab, an attempt to knock Sherlock off of his game before the 'detective' can start picking at issues that really matter.

Edited 2012-12-23 18:41 (UTC)

Amazing. Sherlock leans back as well with a small smile. Its not the first time someone told him he isn't as good as he thinks he is, he's not bothered by it. Instead, intrigued. That - if Stark was telling the truth - he has skipped High-School entirely. That would have been moreorless around the same time he was in high-school and therefore in London. There's one way to find out.

The transition of his one hand down to his lap and out of Tony's sight is seamless. At some point he'll touchbase with a someone who can uproute the truth on that matter. Until then, he takes a sip of his coffee (with the left)

"Womanizing in passed tense." That left am plants its elbow in to the table. The minor shift allows a bit of the ink at his wrist to show. Finger and thumb pinch together and subconsciously rub. "If it's any consolation, I've followed your work with nothing but the utmost respect and in regard to your specialties Mr. Stark, I take no personal offence admitting I am completely outmatched. See, small talk is not a specialty of mine."

Edited 2012-12-23 21:27 (UTC)

Like most heirs to wealth and power, Tony had attended boarding schools. Multiple. School after boarding school, all the most elite, all promising to turn out cultured, educated young adults groomed for success in business. None of them had known what to do with a kid that was more interested in the inner workings of an engine, the inner workings of the newest computers (still a room large at that time) than history, philosophy or culture. Not to mention his fondness for pranks. And so kicked out of one, Howard sent him to another for the cycle to start over before they finally found him intelligent enough for college when he was finishing middle school, handed him a diploma, and declared him out of their hair.

Tony doesn't bother to hide his own tinkering with his cell, flicking open a new blueprint for a renovation of the core in the larger arc reactor that powered his building. He does laugh at Sherlock's comment, ending it with a long drink of the coffee, "Of course past. You met Pep, and you know how I feel about my head remaining attached to the rest of my body. I don't dally without permission."

It's not a complete admission of fidelity, but it's certainly more than his past self would ever allow. Perhaps Pepper has been a bit more of a calming influence on the wild child inventor than even Tony would admit.

"Small talk is no one's specialty except for politicians and con artists," He smirks knowingly, "Which doesn't explain why you don't like it. But, I'll allow you your idiosyncrasies. So. It's always nice to meet a fan--but, I do have to ask. Which do you prefer, my old or my new stuff?" The weapons or the clean energy.

Stark wasn't the only one who was born to wealth and power. Perhaps yet another similarity. Holmes' father practically was the government but that was in England. He's said the reason for moving here was that American criminals had a certain something and that was true enough but it wasn't the full facts. It was actually a small margin of it. Truth enough, with all Sherlock's brashness he still had a proper about him. He, on the other hand - while taking interest in other pursuits - fit the glove of rich and proper British perfectly. He knew the violin and piano, he likes opera, fine dining and arts, but that was just a sample of his enjoyments (and things that few knew about anymore).

"Professional and natural," as if to say that the vast majority of persons who understand the methods of small talk might not professionally be politicians or con artists but they could be of they tried. There is some very vague amusement when he mentions about Pepper but he tucks it away because it lead to -- well. That was done and over with.

"Do you like it?" Small talk, that is. Phone sliding away and resuming its post to link with the other. This answer was barely even a question, for Sherlock, who knew much how to hold a gun and how to shoot one but dreads ever needing to and makes quite a point to have none of them in the house. Ever.

"Your technologies interest me more than either, to be frank. One less lethal weaponry creator in the world, I'd look at it as a good thing. It never stops others from trying to compete. Do you ever consider returning to it?"

"No. I'm too fond of transparency to like watching people lie about themselves to each other in order to make friends. At least without alcohol involved," Tony dismisses the topic with an easy joke.

"My technologies aren't meant for the general public, at least not for the next decade. Please, the new iPhone just came out, and people camped out for days as if they were actually excited for it. You're not ready for next StarkTab," Tony scoffs, "But, I do appreciate a fan of my lesser known works."

Stark Industries is famous for its efforts to clean energy, renewable resources, infamous for its weapons, but it's really the day-to-day tech advances that keep the company afloat. StarkPhones rival Samsung and Apple in the market, while StarkTabs remain a playtoy of the truly technology savvy--those who have time to devote to modding and personalization find that Tony Stark's tablets rival full size systems for speed and performance, all with a sleek, truly minimalist design. The one on the table in front of Tony himself is a few generations ahead of what he's handed over to R&D right now--his own personal toy.

"Ah, but there is a lot you can tell about someone in their lies. Should you know how to spot them.' he mentions and then slides his own phone to the table. It's an iPhone, of course, but Sherlock doesn't have it for the name. He did have a Windows 7. It couldn't keep up, but iPhone wasn't much better to be honest. Clearer camera which was what he needed.

"People," he starts, "not to be confused with me, line up for this," a finger taps the phone in gesture, "because it has a reputation not because it's worth-while. the great thing about Apple is that it's simple. Silve-platter children love it because everything is right there. It's boring. I could take it apart piece by piece and put it back together in a matter of moments, Mr. Stark. Jobs and his innovative technologies hardly impresses me. It's trendy. Not practical and certainly not praise-worthy."

Tony picks up the iPhone, flipping it over in his hands. He makes a face at the screen, turning it on edge to roll his eyes at the thickness of the phone, "Rich kids love it because they're just as vapid as any other teenager. And my tech intimidates them."

"So, you know your tech. That's clear. Maybe not as well as you know people though. So, why the hell did Pepper decide to arrange this little rendezvous? Serious question by the way," he pauses, leaning forward slightly to slide the phone back across the table, "Actually. Do your little deduction thing. About Pep."

He doesn't seem derisive in his request, simply curious--and very used to getting what he wants.

"A compliment, I'll take it as." There's a faint smirk on his lips as he finished the coffee and let it slide back down to the table. A chance to show off? Certainly.

"Pepper Potts," he hums and lets his fingers slide onto the table and tap a moment. "She's very analytical, organized, neat, punctual, strait to the point, practical and professional. Everything you'd want in a personal accountant. I'd dare to even say that she was an accountant before landing her job by your side. Yet while her professional life has made her a star she endures a bit of struggle in social affairs. I'd even say that the common social gathering would be a business related one. Outside of work, it's lonely. Her dedication and brilliance is what brought her to you and her inability to meld with the dullards of typical social welfare is what made her loyal to you," a point, "being the sharp eye, she too noticed your mask you wrap up in alcohol and womanizing but her incredible amounts of patience lasted it out. She doesn't do what she does for money, she does what she does because she cares about it and she's good at it."

Sherlock takes a moment. His head tips upwards in thought. "I'd say that she grew up in a middle-class and average family."

It's far easier to hear those sorts of intimate details about another person, and Tony nods along with the assessment, a snort of laughter as Sherlock mentions the 'dullards of typical social welfare.' He pauses as Sherlock talks about her patience, chuckling under his breath as he taps at the StarkTab on the table, "That reminds me. I guess I should try to remember to get her a birthday present this year. Considering she's my boss and my girlfriend now."

He cocks his head at Sherlocks confession of her social awkwardness, arguing, "So, you think she doesn't like parties? Why organize so many of them then? And she's always the one dragging me along to charity balls and all of that high-society bullshit."

Heels click against the pavement as Pepper Potts walks up to an apartment. Specifically, the apartment in which she believed Sherlock Holmes was to be living in, if the sources were right at all. She had tried to call in, of course, but just like her famous boyfriend, she got no answer. Maybe it was a thing with geniuses (or a few other choice words she could call her boyfriend, but calling Holmes any of those would be premature.)

Tony said he was bored. He didn't want to sign contracts, didn't want to do this, didn't want to do that. Said it was meant for someone of lower intelligence. This pissed her off, mostly do to the fact that he really wasn't doing any of the work anyways. So she'd find someone for him. Make him use that brain he had. And who better to do that than Sherlock Holmes?

She knocked on the door.

Of course Sherlock didn't answer the phone. That was not to be mixed up with not paying attention to his phone. He did pay attention and he was quite interested with the number displayed. Within minutes Holmes went from his current project (reviewing autopsy of latest murder victim) to researching what Stark Industries has been up to lately. There was nothing out of line, nothin' public, and hacking in to their security? Holmes knew when he was outmatched. Alright, he often didn't hut the very fact that Sherlock would admit something was more advanced than himself meant it was monumentally so. Which wouldn't keep him from trying if absolute necessary, mind. He had contacts.

Nevertheless, it was a good five minutes before the door was answered and it wasn't Sherlock who answered it. It was Watson who was looking more than a bit frustrated. Not at Pepper, of course.

"please," the tone was stressed. "come in."

Joan's passive way of interrupting important work. And when Potts made her way in to the room which he was working she would see quite a mess. Most of it focused on around the computers. Any sign of his previous snooping was cleared up. Papers and files all over the place. A map of evidence and suspects, victims, relevant items covered the wall. Tacs and red thread linked point to point.

"Good afternoon, Miss Pepper Potts." he said, but doesn't look back. "How may I be of service to Stark and company?"

"Thank you." she gave the woman a polite smile, nodding her head. In her arms was the usual arrangement of files, anything from documents to be looked over for the Industry to little notes Tony had decided were good to put into her pile of work. She would have left them in the car, but no--they had things she might need in order to schedule things with Mr. Holmes.

She carefully made her way through the mess, a master at avoiding clutter thanks to Tony. She stood several feet behind the genius, turning to Ms. Watson. "I would like to speak to Mr. Holmes alone, if that's okay with you." she explained, putting on a more serious air. After the woman had left, she spoke directly to the man.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. I see you're very busy, but would you be interested in meeting Tony Stark?"

He pauses in his work to look up to her. Holmes looked the complete opposite of Tony. Tony had image while Sherlock preferred to slip under the radar. He practically looked homeless most of the time. As for Miss Potts, she looked every inch the professional secretary. Her clothes were designer but not absolute top of the line. She preferred function to style hut kept herself classy. Clean nails, perfectly cared for matter of fact. Hair pulled up in a pony. Not too much make-up. She didn't want attention. Authority. Professionalism. Extremely organized and patient.

Would he like to meet Tony Stark. Sherlock rises from his spot and heads unto the kitchen. "Always busy, Miss Potts. No shortage of lunatics in New York. Coffee?"

She didn't even blink at his appearance. She'd seen Tony enough times when he didn't look the part of billionaire-whatever he called himself to know well enough that expecting the man dressed up for the part was quite silly. She stepped back as he got up, then followed him, standing just outside the doorframe. Changing the subject, was he? Perhaps he was just trying to be nice.

"No, thank you. I had a cup this morning." With Tony. "I'm sure you're very, very busy, but I assure you, Mr. Stark is flexible." Or, at least, he could be.

Not changing the subject. Investigating. Besides, he wanted coffee. He hadn't slept much last night (no surprise). She presses on with an understanding. Something almost urgent, it seemed. Not urgent enough that he was needed right now which was unlikely to make it an event that required his deduction skill.

There's a slow smile that slides over his lips as he brings the filled cup to his lips and takes a sip. It's been there awhile. Not super hot anymore. "Playing matchmaker, Miss Potts?|

"I assure you, Mr. Stark has no need for a matchmaker." there's a small laugh, mixed with the tone of being almost-comfortable. "I do know, though, that he would like to speak to someone of your intelligence level." She's not going to say he was bored, of course, that would be un-businesslike. It would also be rude to the person she was talking to. Who wants to be told that a rich, smart man like Tony Stark only wants to talk to him because he's bored? No one, most likely.

"So the papers say." Don't worry, Sherlock prefers to be something of use. He does not cope so well with people who just 'want to talk'. What does that even mean? I just want to talk. Such a completely baffling concept. Want to talk about what? Want to talk about work? Want to talk about philosophy? Ecomony, politics, why the sky is blue? No, just want to talk. You know. About stuff. How was your day?

Drives. Him. Mad.

"Mm," but that smile hasn't left his lips. Of course he is interested. Sherlock had a PhD in Psychology and Criminlogy. Stark had a PhD in Engineering and Physics. Sherlock could have went in to Engineering and Sciences. He had the mind for it but he chose to not. For many reasons; most relating to the heart.

Still, it fascinated him. Which was why he knew how to use ciphers, why he followed so many home security, why he liked lock-picking and system-hacking, and why he had followed Tony Stark's technological empire with something of admiration.

"And it would be unkind of me to decline the offer of a chat with a fellow genius, wouldn't it?"

"I'm sure he would understand." No, no he wouldn't. Not that he knew that she'd even come, of course. She'd simply told hiim she had some errands to run, and since he was quite wrapped up in his newest project, he'd let her go. And now she was here. With another genius. Not quite as irratating, she assumed, but that could just be because of the short time she'd spent with him. She eyes the coffee pot.

"Actually, coffee sounds okay right now."

"I'm sure he thinks he's just fine rotting in the sanctum of his mind." Speaking from experience, perhaps. Coffee it is and he will pull out a cup, pour. Joan made it. He makes god awful coffee. It's like drinking gritty piss, really. One of the many reasons she is not allowed to leave.

Anyway. The cup is placed on the table and he unfolds a hand to motion he toward the chair across from the one his hand had steadied on.

Okay, that was a bit more than irritating. "I doubt that's what's happening here, Mr. Holmes." Her tone changes slightly, is a bit more sharp. She sits, crossing her legs, pursing her lips. "Thank you." She takes a sip of the coffee. Not what she was used to, no, but deccent all the same.

"Perhaps tomorrow at three?"

He leans back against his chair and watches for a second. People don't just want to talk to Sherlock. No one except Joan and Joan just wants to talk to Sherlock because she thinks that him reliving his memories is going to make chemical dependence disappear from the recesses of his mind (which it wont, by the way).

"I've upset you," he seems to almost be questioning it, but. Nevertheless seems to also be inquiring why and more so why she decided to come bother him to meet with Tony stark. It couldn't have been a case. She would have been more urgent in her proposal.

Keep your composure, Pepper--maybe he was more like Tony than she thought. She was here on buisness, and that alone. So why was he so concerned about how she was? He clearly had things to get done as well, so getting to the bottom of things as quick as possible seemed like the best solution. She stays silent for a second, thinking upon how to respond.

Of course he upset her-she was Tony Stark's girlfriend. And no matter how often he complained she tortured him somehow, she wouldn't let him suffer alone in this 'sanatorium' or whatever he assumed she was leaving him in. She may not be as smart as him, but she sure as hell wasn't leaving him alone to rot. That was insulting to her.

"That has nothing to do with the topic at hand, Mr. Holmes."

Business to get her boyfriend a playdate? Seemingly the end goal as far as he could tell which amused him just a little. He rubs a hand under his nose and over his lips before letting it flop down. He didn't send her here at all, did he. Wonder how impressed he'll be with her decision (sarcasm).

"Three it is." But he never did suggest that she was leaving him there, Tony. She was doing the opposite, trying to help, and like Sherlock (he can only assume) Tony will be annoyed but in the end grateful.

She smiles, the smile of someone who's just gotten their way. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

She takes out a pen, writing it down on a planner. Hopefully Tony will enjoy the encounter--he needed more friends, really. She writes down something on a scrap piece of paper, handing it to the detective. "Here, a reminder. I wrote my number on it in case you run into another case before then." Standing, she offers a hand out to shake. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Holmes."

Oh, he knows that smile. He's seen it before and he's worn it before but it's hardly the maker of a challenge being hat he is, most honestly, interested.

When she hands out the paper, he takes it between the tips of two fingers and looks it over. Unconcerned, for the moment, of what it said. More interested in what her writing style said about her. Sliding it in half he rises and grasps her hand. Firm, one shake. A short nod.

"And you,"a calm about him as he even offers to see her to the door.

It's neat and precise, the note. Ever so slightly girly as well, medium sized handwriting. She smiles politely at him, walking quickly to the door with him in tow,a feeling of professionalism about her. She stops at the door to readjust herself before putting a hand on the door.

"Goodbye, and thank you again. Do you need a ride to get there tomorrow, by any chance?"

_openpost.exe

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watch me be tired

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A day before the Tony thread?

so please you c:

c:

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