"Thank you, I appreciate it," Ted answers with a smile. He starts to head back but then pauses and turns back to Sherlock. "Hey, by the way, I wanted to go to Turner's funeral, but I haven't heard anything about it. Could you look into when that's happening?" He assumes it's taken a while because they needed to investigations about cause of death or something like that.
"I can call our contacts in Scotland Yard," Sherlock agrees. He's a little taken aback by the idea of Ted going to Turner's funeral, then quickly realizes he really shouldn't be surprised at all. Of course Ted would care about paying respects to the man. He knows how broken Mr. Chapman was, and would have doubtless tried to make things better for him if only he had had the chance. God damn Moriarty for taking that away from him.
Ted already tried to make it better for him, at least to try to show him some kindness and understanding. Turner just wasn't ready for it. And now he never will be. It didn't take a lot of effort to see how much he was hurting inside and, ironically, Ted feels a little bit like he failed him. Despite knowing that's not really true, and there wasn't much he could do - nor should he probably be expected to.
"Thank you," he says with a grateful nod, before leading the way towards the bedroom. On the way he grabs some sleepwear for Joan as well, since she might want to change into something more comfortable now they're back in bed.
Sherlock follows Ted into the bedroom, careful not to spill the drinks.
Joan is reading when they come in. She looks up and smiles to see the two of them. "Hey love," she says to Ted, then smiles at Sherlock. "Thanks for helping."
"It is my pleasure, Watson," he says, carefully setting down the tray on the chair next to the bed.
"Brought some clothes for when you want to sleep," Ted says, dropping them on the foot of the bed for now.
"Oh, oh, Sherlock, look!" Ted says excitedly, picking up the controller and waking it back up, and going to show the digital Ted on the screen. He grins expectantly at Sherlock.
Ted grins brightly, satisfied with that answer. (If he was going to guess what Sherlock's reaction would be, it's actually better than he would've expected.)
"Thanks, we spent a while on it," he answers cheerfully, getting back into bed. "Alright, well, don't let us keep you if you want to get back to work."
While Sherlock has grown considerably in the time Watson has been in his life, there are still people he makes exceptions for when it comes to the harshness of his manner. Usually it is due to respect for their intelligence and investigative abilities. But Ted...Ted is different. Sherlock is a cynical man, and yet somehow Ted's kindness and generosity of spirit make him actually believe in the potential for goodness, in others, yes, but more remarkably in himself. Ted makes him want to be kind.
"Again, call if you need anything," Sherlock says. He nods to Joan, who nods back, then leaves the room.
Joan reaches over for her tea and carefully sips it. "Mmm. Mint."
Ted would be touched to hear that. It probably helps that his kindness doesn't come from naivety or foolishness. It's a very conscious choice, and something he's incredibly dedicated to, despite all the cruelty in the world. Being kind doesn't require being blind.
"Mint's great, but why does it have to come with tea?" he says playfully, carefully reaching for his coffee.
"It is the tea," she points out, fully aware he's teasing her. "Not all tea is created equal. There are traditional Chinese teas that have been scientifically proven to boost immunity, lower blood pressure, and give longer erections."
He's right in the middle of taking a sip when she says that last bit, and chokes a little on the coffee. It's so well timed he suspects it's intentional.
"Mmm, really?" he then asks with polite but only mild interest, as if he didn't just choke, then smiles playfully.
"Yeah alright, good to know." Ted side-eyes her with a smile. He has to appreciate the skill of the timing of the prank, at the very least. (And as long as she doesn't intentionally try to embarrass him in front of other people, he is a-ok with it. But he knows she wouldn't do that.) And hey, he was the one who started teasing. It's only fair.
"Well, for the former it's just gonna be a glass of a really good whiskey, nice and simple," he answers, that part at least easy enough. "For non-alcoholic, there's a lot more competition. Lot of good coffees, you know, like a peppermint latte or a hazelnut mocha, when you need that boost in the morning. Or, I love a nice cold glass of coke, drop a slice of lemon in there? Ooh! Or a really good sports mix, like what Nate makes. Mmm! Lotta good options. What about you?"
"Mmm. Alcohol-wise, I'd have to go with a really nice red. The kind that pairs perfectly with a perfect meal. Non-alcoholic...well. I like jasmine tea." She smiles, fully anticipating Ted's negative reaction. "And I like coffee, too. Soy milk lattes." Her smile turns wistful. "Even now."
He nods in agreement with a nice red, as he very much enjoys that too. He limits his negative reaction to a sort of 'meh' face and a shrug. He doesn't want to diss something she really enjoys. (And he hasn't tried jasmine tea. Maybe it's super different. Who knows.)
"Even now?" he asks curiously, wondering what that story was.
"Andrew," she says softly. "The poison was in my soy milk latte and he got it mixed up with his and took a sip." She probably hasn't told him that specific detail.
"Right.." he answers softly, reaching out to take her hand for a moment and give it a comforting squeeze. He knew it was a drink, but not that specific one, and didn't make the connection immediately.
He does get why Joan thinks that by dating someone, she automatically puts them in harms way. He wishes she wouldn't have to feel guilty about that. Mourning is bad enough.
"Yeah, I still can't drink Coors," he comments softly.
She's been working on putting that idea out of her mind, because the thought itself could poison their relationship. He wants to be with her, and they love each other. She truly believes they belong together, and she knows that any potential threat they might face they will face together.
She frowns faintly, squeezing his hand. She doesn't remember him saying anything about not being able to drink a certain beer.
"It was the first thing I drank after my dad died," he explains. "Still kind of... tastes like sadness, you know?"
And he was 16 at the time, which he knows he's told her, so clearly he wasn't that used to drinking beer in general yet. It wasn't the first time, but even so.
She squeezes his hand again. "I'm sorry," she says softly. Him drinking a beer right after his dad died feels odd, and she realizes that she knows very little about his dad. Especially about how Ted lost him.
He smiles gratefully at her comfort, squeezing her hand back.
He considers telling her. She should know. At some point. But they've already talked so much about death of loved ones, and it keeps interrupting lovely times they're having, and he knows he can't just throw it out there and move on. And talking about it gives him this knot in his stomach that he just... doesn't want to try to deal with right now. It still makes him angry.
"I don't want to talk about it," he answers quietly, but he gives her an apologetic smile to know she hasn't overstepped or anything. But there's obviously still a lot of pain there, even thirty years later.
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"Thank you," he says with a grateful nod, before leading the way towards the bedroom. On the way he grabs some sleepwear for Joan as well, since she might want to change into something more comfortable now they're back in bed.
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Joan is reading when they come in. She looks up and smiles to see the two of them. "Hey love," she says to Ted, then smiles at Sherlock. "Thanks for helping."
"It is my pleasure, Watson," he says, carefully setting down the tray on the chair next to the bed.
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"Oh, oh, Sherlock, look!" Ted says excitedly, picking up the controller and waking it back up, and going to show the digital Ted on the screen. He grins expectantly at Sherlock.
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"It's...an incredible likeness," he allows.
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"Thanks, we spent a while on it," he answers cheerfully, getting back into bed. "Alright, well, don't let us keep you if you want to get back to work."
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"Again, call if you need anything," Sherlock says. He nods to Joan, who nods back, then leaves the room.
Joan reaches over for her tea and carefully sips it. "Mmm. Mint."
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"Mint's great, but why does it have to come with tea?" he says playfully, carefully reaching for his coffee.
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"Mmm, really?" he then asks with polite but only mild interest, as if he didn't just choke, then smiles playfully.
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"Oh yeah. Better than Viagra. Cheaper too."
She leans in to give him a quick kiss, almost an apology for making him choke like that.
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"What's your favorite drink?" she asks him.
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He rests his mug in his lap as he considers that unexpected question for a moment. "Alcoholic or not?" he asks for clarification.
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"Even now?" he asks curiously, wondering what that story was.
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He does get why Joan thinks that by dating someone, she automatically puts them in harms way. He wishes she wouldn't have to feel guilty about that. Mourning is bad enough.
"Yeah, I still can't drink Coors," he comments softly.
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She frowns faintly, squeezing his hand. She doesn't remember him saying anything about not being able to drink a certain beer.
"Why Coors?" she asks softly.
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And he was 16 at the time, which he knows he's told her, so clearly he wasn't that used to drinking beer in general yet. It wasn't the first time, but even so.
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"How did he die?" she asks gently.
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He considers telling her. She should know. At some point. But they've already talked so much about death of loved ones, and it keeps interrupting lovely times they're having, and he knows he can't just throw it out there and move on. And talking about it gives him this knot in his stomach that he just... doesn't want to try to deal with right now. It still makes him angry.
"I don't want to talk about it," he answers quietly, but he gives her an apologetic smile to know she hasn't overstepped or anything. But there's obviously still a lot of pain there, even thirty years later.
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