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)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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. ]

[A pause.

Then, quietly, with that same attempt at force that he really should know won't work on an Army man:]

Go home, John.

[ Sherlock is clearly trying to be diplomatic here, so John is going to commend him by using a soft tone while he sets it straight for him. ]

He will definitely not do anything if we're both here, Sherlock. That would be stupendously idiotic. Your intention was to threaten him, yeah? What gives you the right to have all the fun? I thought I was the one strapped up.

I won't be in the way. I could use a cuppa, besides.

[Luceti had taken its share: nicotine patches, major chemistry set, contacts, mobile, internet access, familiar surroundings, morgue access, work.

What it had not taken was Sherlock's ability to say the entirely wrong thing without hesitation.]

Of course you'll be in the way.

[ It was John who had been strapped with a bomb.

It was John whose safety was threatened. I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you.

If Moriarty were going to harm anyone, it would be John. Not him.]

[ That does show. The shorter man does not straighten so much as he draws his shoulders back a little with the blow.

To John, Moriarty is a psychopath. He doesn't hold value in anything, much less human life. He also seems to have a temper, which makes him more than a little unpredictable. If he is anything like Sherlock (and John does not like to think about it in such a way), who will toss his own things about without a secondary glance during a tantrum, what would Moriarty do?

John may have been the one strapped to the bomb, but he remembered that the consulting criminal was willing to kill them both before the phone had rang. John didn't doubt he would have tried. Not for a moment.

What John did doubt was this sort of immunity Sherlock thought he had against Moriarty. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't be killed outright, true, but there was nothing to stop Moriarty from trying to hurt him. Except, of course, John himself. ]

I'm not leaving, so you'd better find some way to make it work.

[ He tells the other man with a note of finality. He lets his hand go. ]

You're an idiot.

[When John moved his hand, Sherlock curled his fingers around the box he was still holding. A reaction contained until then.

He saw the similarities between Moriarty and himself. They had followed too close of paths, diverging only in specific places. Moriarty's first murder had been his first case. There was something about it, some inkling that their fates were knit together.

And God help those pulled into it.

Like John.]

Okay.

[His hand tightened around the box, squeezing slightly. Obvious. Too obvious. Moriarty would be watching, enjoying every reaction, drinking in every second of this exchange.]

We'll have a cup of tea. Then we'll go home.

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