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Entangled

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             “We shouldn’t be doing this, of course.”  The older man’s observation caused Sherlock to raise an eyebrow.

             “This isn’t the first time you’ve said that.”  He paused a moment, the cigarette balanced between his fingers delicately, a grey, faintly glowing worm emerging from the end of the cylinder in the meantime.  “I’m not the first person you’ve said it to either.”

             The corners of John Watson’s mouth twitched beneath his carefully groomed moustache.  “You never do change.  It doesn’t matter how you look.  You’re still the same insufferable—”

             “And you’re the same irate, unobservant sceptic.”  Sherlock shot back, cutting him off and grinding his cigarette into the dish-now-ashtray sitting at the edge of the table.  “Your point, Jo—Watson.  Get to it.”

             Shooting the younger Englishman a look, Watson adjusted his collar back into place.  “And every time I end up—”

             “Entangled?”

             Another glare.  “Yes.  With…with…whichever form you seem to crop up in.”

             A slight smirk stealing its way onto his angular features—a smirk that was all too familiar to Watson, Sherlock crossed one leg over the other at the knee, the blue bathrobe rustling as he did so.  “Yet you never seem to mind.”

             Watson made a face, but made no move to deny the allegation.  Finally he spoke up.  “At least you’re not on the cocaine any longer.”

             Slight bemusement.  “Oh?”

             The doctor grimaced slightly at the familiar tone, then brought himself to reply.  “It made you…”  He paused, as if uncertain of the word, its modernity slightly distasteful on his tongue.  “…kinkier.”