"No. No. Thank you."

He shifted in his chair, and then very carefully moved his hand from John's wrist to his face: a brief, uncertain touch, but a warm one all the same.

"And don't--dribble, all right? We made it to coffee, it'll be a disgrace if everything goes to hell now." The remark was nowhere near his usual level of acid or sharpness--in fact it was almost gentle. Or at least as gentle as Sherlock Holmes could ever get.