Later that evening, Tongen sat on his couch holding a cup of wine, the warm amber glow of his television washing over the dim sitting room as some action film played out across the screen. He had the volume set low enough that the dialogue was more of a murmur than anything else, background noise to fill the quiet of the apartment rather than something he was actively following. He was halfway through his second glass and had barely touched the plate of food on the coffee table in front of him, one leg propped up on the edge of the table, posture loose and unbothered, the picture of a man with nowhere to be and nothing pressing on his mind.
His phone buzzed against the cushion beside him. He glanced at the screen, saw the name, and picked it up without a second thought.
"Yoo, Sherlock," he said, leaning back further into the couch.
"Wassup, Tongen," Sherlock replied from the other end.
