trainingwings | [ Voice ]/[ Action ]

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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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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.

[ John licked his lips, and maybe his jacket shifted a little, but otherwise he didn't comment. They're both idiots, getting themselves mixed up with murderers. At this point, John wouldn't have it any other way. ]

Alright.

[ Something about him relaxes a little. He doesn't challenge Sherlock often, and wins even less, but he's drawing the line here. This is something he feels better taking on together. Sitting at home, he knows he'd just be worrying anyway.

He shifts to walk around Sherlock and make his way to the counter to order. He knows how they both take their tea, seeing as he's often the one making it. There's a glance he passes Moriarty's way, but he doesn't allow his gaze to linger long. Just enough to send the message out, not enough to allow him to really think about how he'd like to come across the table at the bastard and ruffle that pristine countenance. He bets Moriarty goes for the eyes. ]

[He was not admitting defeat, Sherlock told himself. It was a temporary concession. He could always go back out later, after John was asleep.

In this open, public environment, they had to be careful. Moriarty was good at what he did, blending in and wearing masks. They could not be the aggressors or they might be opposed by well-meaning idiots.

But Sherlock's eyes remained on Moriarty for a time then flickered between the consulting criminal and John. While Sherlock would love to provoke Moriarty into a public attack, he would not risk John. Moriarty would out himself eventually, and the odds were in their favour now.

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the table. He was anxious, not impatient. He didn't like having John and Moriarty in so close of quarters, but he would not let himself leave immediately.

It was about appearances. Letting Moriarty see him remain. See he wasn't going to up and run every time.]

[ Moriarty was definitely an unassuming man at first glance. John hadn’t paid him much credence when he made his first appearance at Bart’s, aside from the fact that Sherlock had spurned him. He did the victim very well. Even when the man was shouting and threatening to skin his connections, John couldn’t take him very seriously. But he was scared of him. He was terrified of the idea of a man who would readily spirit away innocent people for the sake of showing off, and he was afraid of what he might be planning, not just for he and Sherlock, but Luceti itself.

But someone needed to stand up to Moriarty. Sherlock was someone with the ability to do that, and John wanted to stand beside him. So far as the current argument went, John didn’t fool himself to think it was settled, but this was not the place to talk about it.

He returned to set a steaming cup before Sherlock, and didn’t pause to circle around and settle down in the open chair nearby. Seemed like he was less inclined to put his back to Moriarty than he was to set his side against Sherlock’s. He seemed content to share the silence that often developed between two people who knew one another, although to say he was content in general would be a grave mistake. His hand, the one which trembled occasionally when he was lax and warm in the armchair at home, was perfectly steady now on the handle of his cup. There was a slow breath across the tea before he sipped. His eyes flickered down to Sherlock’s fingers on the table, then up to the man himself - steady... A sip. ]

[You're not bored now, are you?

A different man had said them, but the words... The words were Moriarty. Every syllable of every sentence was Moriarty, and, in his memory, Sherlock heard the words in dual-layer. The cabbie-- the puppet-- and Moriarty-- the puppetmaster. Sherlock picked up his cup of tea and took a sip of it.

He glanced over at John. His voice was low, careful.]

A different face for every crowd. The perfect chameleon. Genius.

You could stand to say it with a bit less reverence.

[ Mildly, over the rim of his cup. ]

[A blink.]

Why?

I call it what it is-- genius.

To play every role so well, only a few traces... things he can't bear to part with, no matter who he is.

But no one looks that close-- I didn't look that close.

It's genius.

That's because he came at you with sexuality. And you're an ass.

[ He's not irritated at all. ]

Gave me his number. His actual number. I had it sitting in my pocket the entire time, and he knew I wouldn't even glance at it.

Brilliant.

He knows you're an ass.

[ John amends. ]

That's enough.

Brilliant.

[Okay. He's done now. Probably.]

[ Elbow, meet ribs. Not very hard. ]

...What?

[ Tea. ]

[Yes, yes. Tea is all very well and good.

He still has no idea what he's done wrong.

But, after a few moments, he glances at John.]

You shouldn't bait him like that.

[Yes, he's monitoring your conversations over the journals, John.]

[ He's having the good grace to drop the subject. Or he's trying to. ]

...

And just what have you been doing?

[ He challenges, tone a little too light. ]

I've been watching him.

You're "letting him know he's not invisible", I believe you said earlier. [ Does he have to get the journal, Sherlock? ]

You're intimidating him. I don't see how it's any different.

"Intimidation" would require him to be afraid of me. I don't scare him.

But it means he knows he can be seen, can be found. It... won't frighten him, but it will keep him on edge.

I still don't see how it's any different. It's due to rile him up a bit.

[ John pauses for a moment, filling the gap with another slow sip of his cup. Licks his lips. ]

When I first met your brother, he tried to threaten me, you know.

[ There's a point here, Sherlock. ]

Not in so many words, but there were the cameras, and the empty car park... I got the gist.

Do you know what I told him?

Very dramatic. Doesn't surprise me. Mycroft loves a show.

Family trait.

[ Moving on. ]

Anyway, I told him that he was wasting his time.

I don't subscribe to terrorism, Sherlock. Moriarty contacted me, and I think I've made it clear enough that he's not going to bully me into anything. If that pisses him off, just as well.

No matter how you look at it, he's stuck here. He's not going to stop, because I don't think he knows how. Sooner or later, he's going to come for us. And when he does, I'm not going to be cowering in our flat. I'm not going to be dodging shadows for the rest of my life here, scared he's going to step out.

Do you understand?

I don't want to live like that.

Moriarty is just a man now. So let him come after me, if he's got the nerve to sully his hands. I'll tear his fucking wings off.

[ There's no touch of heat in John's tone. In fact, it's rather chilled, almost as if he's taken a page from Sherlock's book. But maybe the detective has forgotten - John was a soldier, John chases him into gruesome crime scenes and doesn't flinch when it comes down to dealing with maniacs with no remorse. John knows Sherlock will torture a someone who has accosted their landlady, smiles, and leaves him to it. John is a dangerous man; it's his morals that keep him in check. ]

[Sherlock makes no argument.

He can't forget, really. Sometimes he tries, but he can't forget. John will kill a man baiting another into taking their own life. John has no hesitation with a gun and is a sure shot. The cabbie, the Golem, the dog. Even when frightened-- even when terrified-- John has a handle on his gun and a steady hand.

Moriarty, though... Sherlock Holmes is not accustomed to the feeling of fear. Blind terror is worse. Fear is not bad enough to make his hands shake, but it is enough to make him, every so often when no one is around to see, glance over his shoulder as he walks, expecting to see a shadow.

Finally, Sherlock nods.]

Don't let him catch you off-guard. We don't know who here might be working for him. Most of the ones who are might not even know it.

[ John realizes he's waiting on Sherlock to disagree with him, to call him an idiot again, or say he'll be in the way. He knows this is a personal thing for Sherlock, and may on some level realize it has to do with him as well. Mostly, though, he doesn't want to be told that he can be of no help because Sherlock doesn't want to share; he's afraid this is still just a game to the other man.

But the detective just tells him to watch out for himself, and John realizes he's letting out tension he didn't even know he was holding.

Fine. Good. ]

Fair enough.

[ He concedes to the advice and, by extension, Sherlock's direction. At least they seemed to be on the same page now. ]

We'll get him, John.

["We." For now. While it was safe.

Eventually, Moriarty would find the way in, and it would become something only he could handle. They would walk a path others wouldn't-- couldn't. In the end... nothing else would matter. Their contacts, their plans. All of them would have to be discarded, and they would stand alone.

But John didn't need to know that. He could think that they two would walk the whole way together, face the fires of Hell and come out with only a few burns. And, for now, it was better that way.

Sherlock sat up straighter, glanced over at Moriarty. His tea was only barely sipped at.]

Ready to go, John?

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