trainingwings | [ Voice ]/[ Action ]

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[ Voice ]/[ Action ]

Alright. For future reference, talking animals should be a topic addressed when dealing with new-comers. Less important one, yeah, but still worth an honorable mention, I think.

[ A shift here to a musing tone, but anyone who understands the concept of sarcasm is in for a treat. ]

Kidnapped by unseen, malevolent forces, trapped to live in a village in the middle of nowhere with no means of escape, vulnerable to torture, don't fuss with the wings, everything's free... Talking animals.

I just had a squirrel panhandle me for crisps.

Are there any other things I should be prepared to converse with? Are the appliances keeping tabs on what we're getting up to?

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Player Name: Effy
Are you new?: Yes! Please love me ;;
Character Name: John Watson
Character Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

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~~Not much. I'd~~

Anything he wanted. Wasn't that the point?

He'd be even more bored than he already is.

I'm not the one he'd go after.

[It's so much easier to write it. No telling glance, no worried gesture. It can be what it ought to be, or what Sherlock tells himself it ought to be. A simple statement.]

[ His expression stays cool, though his wings do rustle ever so gently beneath his jacket. ]

So far as I can tell, he's alone. I'm not afraid of those odds.

Better if it was two against the one, though.

Violin strings do make excellent garottes.

[He'll let John decide how serious he is.]

:)

What's he doing?

Sitting in a coffee shop, writing.

Knows I'm here, definitely.

What's the point if he knows you're watching?

Because he knows he's being watched.

He can't come and go as he pleases. He's not invisible.

Seems like you've made your point, then. Come home.

[ Moriarty's message has unnerved him a bit ]

Lock up. [The writing is a bit darker. A harder press of the pen. Obvious. And Sherlock chides himself for it. Yet, he doesn't wait long to resume writing.] Every door. Every window.

Don't wait up.

Come home or I'm coming after you.

[ This writing is hasty in its slant. Don't you fucking dare. ]

Stay put.

On my way.

Damn it! John! I said stay put.

[And now, not even the writing can hide the thoughts behind the words.]

And I said come home. I'll meet you halfway.

[ There's some jumbling to his words and they come slow. Someone who makes an art of observation would very certainly be able to tell that the writer was walking rather than meandering. And walking quite fast. ]

You are an idiot. An absolute idiot.

Go back to the flat. Now.

not

with

out

you

He won't touch me.

[ No reply. Someone is focusing on walking. ]

[Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

Sherlock is on his feet, swiping up his journal and striding toward the door of the coffee shop. Reaching it... He's face-to-face with John.

See that look? Absolute annoyance. Bordering on anger. ...With a tiny bit of a lot of worry tucked away behind it all.]

[ And John looks solid. John looks resolute, and not a bit apologetic. He holds the door open for Sherlock, silently, with his free hand. The other arm cradles a brown bag of shopping, atop of which sits his journal, closed.

There's a silent expectation here, although John delves into a pocket of his jacket, producing a small box. E string. He offers it to the other without a word. He seems... ready, somehow. ]

Go home, John.

[Quiet, calm, eyes steady. But there's a twitch to his lips, and a tension in his hand as he puts his hand under the small box.]

[ John sets the box down in the hand... and then wraps his own around it. Warm. Steady. ]

When you're ready.

Two hours. Then I'll be home.

[Bargaining.

And, knowing Sherlock Holmes, "two hours" can become "twelve hours" without him even meaning for it to.]

Two hours. Good thing I didn't pick up the milk.

[ And yet he's not leaving, Sherlock. It's quite clear he's intending to stay. He did walk all this way, after all. ]

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