Dr. John H. Watson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theblogger) wrote2014-03-08 05:48 pm
theblogger) wrote2014-03-08 05:48 pm
Entry tags:
Appointments
Games: Ataraxion and Luceti
Please indicate the date and the game you're from in the subject line!
Games: Ataraxion and Luceti
Please indicate the date and the game you're from in the subject line!
[The shove disorients him. Physically, it jars the wounds on his body and especially on his wing. He staggers, almost loses his footing, but regains it at the last moment.
Worse than that, though, it shakes him mentally. The anger is understandable, even acceptable. He's revealed that what John went through-- what he put John through-- was to tell a story. "I won't believe you told me a lie." He had told him a great lie, used him for the biggest deception.
But he can't tell John what Moriarty used against him in the end. He can't explain that if he isn't dead, all of them are in danger. If he's nothing more than a ghost, he can destroy Moriarty's web (and the mastermind, if he is still alive) without harm coming to those he would have died to save.]
It had to be done.
[Without explanation... Sherlock knows how hollow those words will be.
But he won't explain them. He can't.
He can only look John in the eye, standing as tall and as firm and as proud as he can manage while he waits for another shove.]
I'll do what has to be done.
Worse than that, though, it shakes him mentally. The anger is understandable, even acceptable. He's revealed that what John went through-- what he put John through-- was to tell a story. "I won't believe you told me a lie." He had told him a great lie, used him for the biggest deception.
But he can't tell John what Moriarty used against him in the end. He can't explain that if he isn't dead, all of them are in danger. If he's nothing more than a ghost, he can destroy Moriarty's web (and the mastermind, if he is still alive) without harm coming to those he would have died to save.]
It had to be done.
[Without explanation... Sherlock knows how hollow those words will be.
But he won't explain them. He can't.
He can only look John in the eye, standing as tall and as firm and as proud as he can manage while he waits for another shove.]
I'll do what has to be done.
Why? What is it that makes it so bloody imperative that you be dead?
[ John doesn't shove him. Not yet. He is, however, very much in Sherlock's space. ]
If you wanted rid of me, you know, I wouldn't have made you jump off Bart's for it. I'd have rather been useless for whatever you... whatever you had to do on your own than have you dead.
[ The final word is punctuated with another push, really more of a flat-palmed slap against the other's chest. Sherlock could have told him. John would have protested, but... But that was surely better than thinking the detective leapt to his death while John looked on like a complete, brainless idiot, debilitated by the weight of nothing more than a request and deep denial. It'd have been easier to stay strong for the man if John had had more to go on than a hunch and an unwillingness to deal with the thought of how much it hurt to lose him.
John stared back, eyes just a bit wider with his own will, and bright with whatever emotion he was pinning down as tightly as the wings on his shoulders. He wasn't as good at impassive as Sherlock was and he wasn't trying to be, but it'd be a grave mistake to let it out of control. ]
If that's your way of being nice, don't bother. You're shit at it. You're a great, bloody idiot.
[ A pause. ]
This is where you say you're sorry.
[ John doesn't shove him. Not yet. He is, however, very much in Sherlock's space. ]
If you wanted rid of me, you know, I wouldn't have made you jump off Bart's for it. I'd have rather been useless for whatever you... whatever you had to do on your own than have you dead.
[ The final word is punctuated with another push, really more of a flat-palmed slap against the other's chest. Sherlock could have told him. John would have protested, but... But that was surely better than thinking the detective leapt to his death while John looked on like a complete, brainless idiot, debilitated by the weight of nothing more than a request and deep denial. It'd have been easier to stay strong for the man if John had had more to go on than a hunch and an unwillingness to deal with the thought of how much it hurt to lose him.
John stared back, eyes just a bit wider with his own will, and bright with whatever emotion he was pinning down as tightly as the wings on his shoulders. He wasn't as good at impassive as Sherlock was and he wasn't trying to be, but it'd be a grave mistake to let it out of control. ]
If that's your way of being nice, don't bother. You're shit at it. You're a great, bloody idiot.
[ A pause. ]
This is where you say you're sorry.
["This is where you say you're sorry."
I'm not.
But this isn't a case, and the lie won't come.]
I'm not going to say that.
[He had chosen his course of action because those were the only consequences he could live with.
John angry at him? He didn't like it. He wanted to explain everything. But it was better than John not being alive to be angry.
Lestrade wondering why he seemed so much more solemn toward him now? He was alive to wonder.
And Mrs Hudson was safe at Baker Street. He could sacrifice his name, his career, and all contact with them for the knowledge that they were alive and no longer in a position to be threatened by Moriarty. They meant nothing as long as he was dead, and that kept them safe.
His wings ruffled with every thought, flexing with the anxieties and pressing against his back to shield him from the regrets he had. Under John's gaze, they quivered slightly, possessed by some restlessness.]
Moriarty has to be destroyed. [One of so many reasons to stay dead.] It's... [Why was it so hard to give half-explanations now? He was so good at them usually.] A living man can't get away with everything that needs to be done to ensure that.
I'm not.
But this isn't a case, and the lie won't come.]
I'm not going to say that.
[He had chosen his course of action because those were the only consequences he could live with.
John angry at him? He didn't like it. He wanted to explain everything. But it was better than John not being alive to be angry.
Lestrade wondering why he seemed so much more solemn toward him now? He was alive to wonder.
And Mrs Hudson was safe at Baker Street. He could sacrifice his name, his career, and all contact with them for the knowledge that they were alive and no longer in a position to be threatened by Moriarty. They meant nothing as long as he was dead, and that kept them safe.
His wings ruffled with every thought, flexing with the anxieties and pressing against his back to shield him from the regrets he had. Under John's gaze, they quivered slightly, possessed by some restlessness.]
Moriarty has to be destroyed. [One of so many reasons to stay dead.] It's... [Why was it so hard to give half-explanations now? He was so good at them usually.] A living man can't get away with everything that needs to be done to ensure that.
Edited 2012-03-26 03:46 (UTC)
[ The soldier definitely draws up at that, eyes narrowing with the refusal. By some miracle, John lets Sherlock get through his careful retort, even seems to weigh it for a moment, before he reaches up and swings a backhand at the younger man's face. It's with his right hand, but it's sharp nonetheless. Hit or miss, he makes a grab for the other's collar (his jacket), attempting to pull the fabric tight around the man just as he pulls the stubborn bastard toward his eye-level. ]
I don't care what sort of methods you want to employ against him, but that's not happening again, Sherlock, do you understand? And if I have to sit and watch you like a fucking nanny to make sure you don't go running off with your wing falling apart, I will do it. Let him run - he's not going to get very far. And with what he seems to be working at, he can't do much damage within the week.
[ The words fall out of him in a rush, and there's the lingering stare of seriousness, but there's something searching about the stare, too. ]
If you want nothing to do with me after the week's up, fine. But you'll do the week and you'll do it right. You owe me that.
[ For what it's worth. For what good it does, if Sherlock's going to go throw himself into danger again without him. ]
I don't care what sort of methods you want to employ against him, but that's not happening again, Sherlock, do you understand? And if I have to sit and watch you like a fucking nanny to make sure you don't go running off with your wing falling apart, I will do it. Let him run - he's not going to get very far. And with what he seems to be working at, he can't do much damage within the week.
[ The words fall out of him in a rush, and there's the lingering stare of seriousness, but there's something searching about the stare, too. ]
If you want nothing to do with me after the week's up, fine. But you'll do the week and you'll do it right. You owe me that.
[ For what it's worth. For what good it does, if Sherlock's going to go throw himself into danger again without him. ]
[Slapped, punched... Those are frequent enough.
But it has been a very long time since Sherlock Holmes was last backhanded. It connects, and he has the sense to know John could have hit harder, but he doesn't really think about that. Not like he normally would. Because there's a hand on the jacket collar-- two hands.
His own hand grabs the fabric of John's shirt, twists it as his shoulders square. Preparing to attack? Or defend himself from anything else?
For a moment, it's pure instinct in those light eyes, an unstable fire.
But he holds John's gaze long enough, really hears what he says, and the detective's taut form begins to relax. His face is stinging, but he's in no danger. This is still John. It's John.
Finally, he nods.]
I won't go after him. Not here. Not unless he comes after me [or you] first.
[A breath. Further consideration of the stinging in his cheek and what it meant the last time he'd been backhanded.]
I'll do the week. Then, you won't have to worry about playing nanny.
But it has been a very long time since Sherlock Holmes was last backhanded. It connects, and he has the sense to know John could have hit harder, but he doesn't really think about that. Not like he normally would. Because there's a hand on the jacket collar-- two hands.
His own hand grabs the fabric of John's shirt, twists it as his shoulders square. Preparing to attack? Or defend himself from anything else?
For a moment, it's pure instinct in those light eyes, an unstable fire.
But he holds John's gaze long enough, really hears what he says, and the detective's taut form begins to relax. His face is stinging, but he's in no danger. This is still John. It's John.
Finally, he nods.]
I won't go after him. Not here. Not unless he comes after me [or you] first.
[A breath. Further consideration of the stinging in his cheek and what it meant the last time he'd been backhanded.]
I'll do the week. Then, you won't have to worry about playing nanny.
[ John draws in a breath as he's grabbed, eyes widening a fraction of a second, but he doesn't move. Sherlock has never looked at him like this, even when he's been in the most foul moods and they're wrapped in a spectacular row. A part of him thinks, for a singular moment, that the man might actually hurt him. It's not fear John feels (not quite) but it is something that makes him draw into himself a bit. Only when Sherlock nods and begins to speak, only when Sherlock takes a breath... does John realize he's been holding his own.
John breathes out, and some of his tension goes with it. His hands grow lax on the other's collar. ]
...Good.
[ This is quieter. Thank you.
It comes with a nod, too, and another breath before John's letting go, palms briefly brushing the taller man's shoulders before the contact on his end is gone entirely. His lips thin, thoughtful. ]
I understand why you did it, you know. I get it.
I just don't understand why you couldn't trust Mrs. H and me after. We wouldn't have told anyone.
[ I could have helped. ]
John breathes out, and some of his tension goes with it. His hands grow lax on the other's collar. ]
...Good.
[ This is quieter. Thank you.
It comes with a nod, too, and another breath before John's letting go, palms briefly brushing the taller man's shoulders before the contact on his end is gone entirely. His lips thin, thoughtful. ]
I understand why you did it, you know. I get it.
I just don't understand why you couldn't trust Mrs. H and me after. We wouldn't have told anyone.
[ I could have helped. ]
[It takes Sherlock a moment longer to release John, but not out of any kind of prolonged threat. No... Whatever lit his eyes is gone, sunk back deep within and the surface has stilled. There's a reluctance to let go, but Sherlock masters it and steps back.
Here... Here, he can be a little more honest.]
You're being watched. All of you. Moriarty-- or his agents, if he really is dead. [Doubtful.] If I'd contacted any of you [especially you] he or any of his connections still alive and active would have found out. I couldn't risk that. [It sounds selfish, and he knows it. It sounds like he couldn't risk Moriarty or his men finding him. But he won't explain. Let John think that. It's better than him knowing just how sentimental he's gotten.
Except...] Mycroft's watched you, too. Kept an eye on all of you.
[and:] So have I.
Here... Here, he can be a little more honest.]
You're being watched. All of you. Moriarty-- or his agents, if he really is dead. [Doubtful.] If I'd contacted any of you [especially you] he or any of his connections still alive and active would have found out. I couldn't risk that. [It sounds selfish, and he knows it. It sounds like he couldn't risk Moriarty or his men finding him. But he won't explain. Let John think that. It's better than him knowing just how sentimental he's gotten.
Except...] Mycroft's watched you, too. Kept an eye on all of you.
[and:] So have I.
[ Perhaps surprisingly, John doesn't immediately seem upset by this explanation. Instead, he simply turns and goes back to his place at the tree, to pick up the bin of supplies. If Sherlock's up, they might as well move some. ]
We put on a good show, I'm sure.
[ This tone is rather hollow, not meant to sting, just a simple fact. ]
We put on a good show, I'm sure.
[ This tone is rather hollow, not meant to sting, just a simple fact. ]
[With John, at this moment, Sherlock knows when not to say anything.
The less said, the better.
But he does move to begin walking in the way they were headed, letting out a quiet breath in a sound that is almost a sigh.]
The less said, the better.
But he does move to begin walking in the way they were headed, letting out a quiet breath in a sound that is almost a sigh.]
[ All things considered, it's probably the most tactical decision that Sherlock has made sense coming here, second only, perhaps, to agreeing to lay down and rest for the time being.
But are they really going to leave Moriarty alone? Technically, with the way things started off, the sort of have to, don't they? It makes John uneasy, but one of the last things he wants to do is start trouble in an unknown territory without a very good reason and a half decent plan.
John falls into step beside Sherlock once more. For now, he's willing to let the silence last, because it's an uneasy one. It's one Sherlock deserves to endure at the moment, with his mind pointed toward the fact that people had mourned him beneath all the slander of the press and the fact that watching hadn't done them any favors. ]
But are they really going to leave Moriarty alone? Technically, with the way things started off, the sort of have to, don't they? It makes John uneasy, but one of the last things he wants to do is start trouble in an unknown territory without a very good reason and a half decent plan.
John falls into step beside Sherlock once more. For now, he's willing to let the silence last, because it's an uneasy one. It's one Sherlock deserves to endure at the moment, with his mind pointed toward the fact that people had mourned him beneath all the slander of the press and the fact that watching hadn't done them any favors. ]
Edited 2012-03-26 08:45 (UTC)
Are there more shops on the way?
[The question comes after a considerable time in silence.
He knows there's one back over the bridge, but that's too far to consider turning 'round and going back to at this point. He doesn't know where they're going, really, and he especially doesn't know the layout of this village.
Sherlock's hands reveal his intentions. The fingers stretch and contract a bit, and the thumb and index finger slip across each other... the same sort of habit he does when checking the rolling of a cigarette, tapping the end to be sure.
Silence, he can bear. But the tension in this quiet makes him want a cigarette.
...or something stronger...
But a cigarette will do.]
[The question comes after a considerable time in silence.
He knows there's one back over the bridge, but that's too far to consider turning 'round and going back to at this point. He doesn't know where they're going, really, and he especially doesn't know the layout of this village.
Sherlock's hands reveal his intentions. The fingers stretch and contract a bit, and the thumb and index finger slip across each other... the same sort of habit he does when checking the rolling of a cigarette, tapping the end to be sure.
Silence, he can bear. But the tension in this quiet makes him want a cigarette.
...or something stronger...
But a cigarette will do.]
Nothing from here on out but houses.
[ Awful, isn't it? The lack of a convenience store on every other block or so on top on miles and miles to walk.
John's not looking much at the other, but he doesn't seem to be avidly avoiding it, either. His eyes flicker over their surroundings, echoes of wariness still lingering from his first days. Not a wise idea to get comfortable, even if life seemed simple enough. ]
I'll go and check the shops for your things tomorrow. Sometimes they come in through that way if they don't come with you.
[ Awful, isn't it? The lack of a convenience store on every other block or so on top on miles and miles to walk.
John's not looking much at the other, but he doesn't seem to be avidly avoiding it, either. His eyes flicker over their surroundings, echoes of wariness still lingering from his first days. Not a wise idea to get comfortable, even if life seemed simple enough. ]
I'll go and check the shops for your things tomorrow. Sometimes they come in through that way if they don't come with you.
They show up in the shops?
[He's almost startled.
Shops. Free to be taken-- by anyone. Clothes were easy enough, as were any "recreational" objects. Those didn't matter.
But his phone. Carefully tossed onto the roof, rather than falling with him. Picked up by the police then disappeared from the evidence locker and reappeared in the hand of Mycroft Holmes as he handed it over to his younger brother. His phone.
Out in the open, unpriced. If anyone took it-- if Moriarty got hold of it--]
My mobile. Look for it. [A beat. And then... a measure of how concerned he was about retrieving it:] Please.
[He's almost startled.
Shops. Free to be taken-- by anyone. Clothes were easy enough, as were any "recreational" objects. Those didn't matter.
But his phone. Carefully tossed onto the roof, rather than falling with him. Picked up by the police then disappeared from the evidence locker and reappeared in the hand of Mycroft Holmes as he handed it over to his younger brother. His phone.
Out in the open, unpriced. If anyone took it-- if Moriarty got hold of it--]
My mobile. Look for it. [A beat. And then... a measure of how concerned he was about retrieving it:] Please.
That's right.
[ The tone also makes John snap to alertness, glancing over. Once he hears the concern, though... ]
It probably won't work, you know.
[ But a part of him is curious and reluctantly amused. ]
But I'll look for it.
[ The tone also makes John snap to alertness, glancing over. Once he hears the concern, though... ]
It probably won't work, you know.
[ But a part of him is curious and reluctantly amused. ]
But I'll look for it.
[Sometimes, cases taught Sherlock things. Moriarty had taught him that nothing could be sacred. Baskerville had taught him true terror and that even his mind could perceive faulty stimuli as true. And the Woman...
had taught him to lock his phone with a password and carry around enough information to do damage.
It might come in handy someday. But he hadn't counted on... whatever the hell had brought him here.]
As long as it doesn't end up with Moriarty, I don't need it. [But he still wanted it. Important information or not, it was his mobile, and he was never far from it.]
had taught him to lock his phone with a password and carry around enough information to do damage.
It might come in handy someday. But he hadn't counted on... whatever the hell had brought him here.]
As long as it doesn't end up with Moriarty, I don't need it. [But he still wanted it. Important information or not, it was his mobile, and he was never far from it.]
I'll look for it.
[ The reassurance is a little more firm.
God knows the thing may as well have been welded to the other man's hand. The mention of Moriarty might mean it has sensitive information in it, though it could just as easily mean Sherlock didn't want his nemesis collecting any of his things. John certainly couldn't fault him for it. ]
Any other questions?
[ It is... not the wisest of queries to make, considering the subject, but Sherlock knows what he means. Questions John can possibly answer. ]
[ The reassurance is a little more firm.
God knows the thing may as well have been welded to the other man's hand. The mention of Moriarty might mean it has sensitive information in it, though it could just as easily mean Sherlock didn't want his nemesis collecting any of his things. John certainly couldn't fault him for it. ]
Any other questions?
[ It is... not the wisest of queries to make, considering the subject, but Sherlock knows what he means. Questions John can possibly answer. ]
[A thousand.
But most of them were either about things not related to this current predicament-- questions about the life in London that an outside observer couldn't quite answer-- or else relied on information John didn't have or that he could find out for himself from the Guide John mentioned.
A good way to spend some of the promised week, he decided.
But there was one.]
What do you make of the place? Nothing technical or anything like that. Just you. Your impressions in the time you've been here. Instinct.
[He'd have time enough to explore for himself, but he wanted John's thoughts. John was so very good at taking in everything necessary... and bad at processing it himself.
...It was almost like before, asking that question.]
But most of them were either about things not related to this current predicament-- questions about the life in London that an outside observer couldn't quite answer-- or else relied on information John didn't have or that he could find out for himself from the Guide John mentioned.
A good way to spend some of the promised week, he decided.
But there was one.]
What do you make of the place? Nothing technical or anything like that. Just you. Your impressions in the time you've been here. Instinct.
[He'd have time enough to explore for himself, but he wanted John's thoughts. John was so very good at taking in everything necessary... and bad at processing it himself.
...It was almost like before, asking that question.]
[It doesn't take long for Sherlock to return.
He goes straight over to John's chair without a word to the man in it. And then... sets the pack of cigarettes he just acquired down on the table between the chairs.
There is no smell of smoke on him, so he hasn't already had one, and only one cigarette is between the fore and middle fingers of his left hand.
It's a silent offer of compromise: Let me have one, and you're in charge of the rest.]
He goes straight over to John's chair without a word to the man in it. And then... sets the pack of cigarettes he just acquired down on the table between the chairs.
There is no smell of smoke on him, so he hasn't already had one, and only one cigarette is between the fore and middle fingers of his left hand.
It's a silent offer of compromise: Let me have one, and you're in charge of the rest.]
[ John hasn't looked up from his journal since the other came in, but it's hard to look like one is reading when one's eyes track along a page without turning it. Just a temporary setback - Sherlock is distracting.
Trying to think of something to say without sounding ridiculous or completely open is difficult. Luckily, Sherlock seems to have an idea.
The doctor's eyes flicker to the box on the table, and temporarily on the hand that nestles the cigarette. He doesn't have to make a big show of sniffing - a simple inhale through the nose, as he's been breathing, is enough to let him know that there's been no chain-smoking before this olive branch has been extended.
Sherlock might see this as a peace offering, but John sees the simple box as an invitation to a fight. Not now, and maybe not tomorrow, but somewhere down the road, past the point where Sherlock finally does away with being cautious around him, the flat will be in disarray and John will be the stupidest man to have ever lived. The detective wants John to fight him, for him; not giving up, just giving in. Should John congratulate him?
Or maybe he's just reading into this way too far. Maybe this is all just an empty promise because having a vice doesn't take from the pockets any more, and John's got no way of keeping Sherlock from getting these easily by paying off the merchants. This will all come down to Sherlock's will, which is, indeed, a mighty force to be reckoned with... but only when it comes to getting what he wants, not when it concerns withholding things from himself. Of the two of them, discipline and moderation is easily John's forte.
John leans forward and picks up the pack, settling back to thumb open the top as if to check the contents. Perhaps he should feel sorry for going through Sherlock's room while he was away. The other man will know because he always did, no matter how carefully John tried to replace things. John doesn't feel bad about it, though. It just means he has only one choice in the matter at hand now, which is to accept. To pretend like he doesn't care would be a lie. ]
Trying to think of something to say without sounding ridiculous or completely open is difficult. Luckily, Sherlock seems to have an idea.
The doctor's eyes flicker to the box on the table, and temporarily on the hand that nestles the cigarette. He doesn't have to make a big show of sniffing - a simple inhale through the nose, as he's been breathing, is enough to let him know that there's been no chain-smoking before this olive branch has been extended.
Sherlock might see this as a peace offering, but John sees the simple box as an invitation to a fight. Not now, and maybe not tomorrow, but somewhere down the road, past the point where Sherlock finally does away with being cautious around him, the flat will be in disarray and John will be the stupidest man to have ever lived. The detective wants John to fight him, for him; not giving up, just giving in. Should John congratulate him?
Or maybe he's just reading into this way too far. Maybe this is all just an empty promise because having a vice doesn't take from the pockets any more, and John's got no way of keeping Sherlock from getting these easily by paying off the merchants. This will all come down to Sherlock's will, which is, indeed, a mighty force to be reckoned with... but only when it comes to getting what he wants, not when it concerns withholding things from himself. Of the two of them, discipline and moderation is easily John's forte.
John leans forward and picks up the pack, settling back to thumb open the top as if to check the contents. Perhaps he should feel sorry for going through Sherlock's room while he was away. The other man will know because he always did, no matter how carefully John tried to replace things. John doesn't feel bad about it, though. It just means he has only one choice in the matter at hand now, which is to accept. To pretend like he doesn't care would be a lie. ]
[ The journal is shut and set aside. The older man rises out of his armchair to cross the flat in silence to the window, which he opens. The fingers of his left hand tap the pack he still holds... before he shifts it and draws one of the pale slivers from the box. After placing it between his lips, he opens an empty hand, palm up, expectant. Lighter, please.
Here's his counter-offer, of a sort. Three months ago and John doesn't think Sherlock would have got it, nor would John have been inclined to do it. Now, though, he thinks the younger man might understand. ]
Here's his counter-offer, of a sort. Three months ago and John doesn't think Sherlock would have got it, nor would John have been inclined to do it. Now, though, he thinks the younger man might understand. ]
[Once he goes into his room and realises it has been gone through, there will be a momentary worry. After all, he has something secreted away there. Not for use but to avoid a row likely to be far more vicious than any over cigarettes. Especially so early. But he was extremely careful in choosing to hide the lone syringe that had found its way here. He hadn't even been looking for it-- it had been in its place in his evidence kit. A reminder of where he'd been before here.
Nothing had come with it, and he hadn't had any interest in finding either of the powders that should have accompanied it, been tucked away in a pouch of the kit. He was bored enough to smoke, but the situation wasn't yet dire enough to require anything stronger than nicotine. Working alone, hunting Moriarty and his assassins alone... that required more. But, even with Moriarty here, this place was... safe enough that he didn't need those.
But he wasn't sure John would believe him if he found the syringe. (Maybe, he considered, he wasn't being totally honest with himself. If he didn't think he'd ever have use for it, why keep it? ...But that's a question for another day.) Logic will dicate, though, after the initial concern that if John had found the syringe, he would have taken it from its hiding place and confronted him with it now.
As it stands, he looks at John holding the cigarette. Perhaps he has some idea what the game is. Perhaps he really is lost. Either way, his reply is simple, neither angry or dismissive. He's almost confused.]
You don't smoke.
[And always protest smoking quite a lot, in fact.]
Nothing had come with it, and he hadn't had any interest in finding either of the powders that should have accompanied it, been tucked away in a pouch of the kit. He was bored enough to smoke, but the situation wasn't yet dire enough to require anything stronger than nicotine. Working alone, hunting Moriarty and his assassins alone... that required more. But, even with Moriarty here, this place was... safe enough that he didn't need those.
But he wasn't sure John would believe him if he found the syringe. (Maybe, he considered, he wasn't being totally honest with himself. If he didn't think he'd ever have use for it, why keep it? ...But that's a question for another day.) Logic will dicate, though, after the initial concern that if John had found the syringe, he would have taken it from its hiding place and confronted him with it now.
As it stands, he looks at John holding the cigarette. Perhaps he has some idea what the game is. Perhaps he really is lost. Either way, his reply is simple, neither angry or dismissive. He's almost confused.]
You don't smoke.
[And always protest smoking quite a lot, in fact.]
You quit.
[ A simple retort for a simple statement. John's eyes track over the world outside the window for a moment, fingers pulling the cigarette out and rolling it between them with the delay. But then his gaze shifts and his brows heft as he stares at the other, asking for the next step and seemingly ready to follow through on the turnabout. ]
[ A simple retort for a simple statement. John's eyes track over the world outside the window for a moment, fingers pulling the cigarette out and rolling it between them with the delay. But then his gaze shifts and his brows heft as he stares at the other, asking for the next step and seemingly ready to follow through on the turnabout. ]
[His reply to Donovan can't be called on here. He can't just shrug it off, even if John knows better than her the erratic nature of his need for a cigarette.
Recalling Mycroft's answer when he mentioned smoking indoors won't help. John will just list off all the damage he could do to himself. Probably invoking the (irritating but perhaps not inaccurate) potential to slide into worse habits.
Pointing out that he's done worse in the months since he "died"... is precisely what he wants to avoid. He's sure John could guess, but he came here clean and he doesn't intend to undo that. One cigarette doesn't count.
Damn it.]
I'll quit again.
[After this one.]
Recalling Mycroft's answer when he mentioned smoking indoors won't help. John will just list off all the damage he could do to himself. Probably invoking the (irritating but perhaps not inaccurate) potential to slide into worse habits.
Pointing out that he's done worse in the months since he "died"... is precisely what he wants to avoid. He's sure John could guess, but he came here clean and he doesn't intend to undo that. One cigarette doesn't count.
Damn it.]
I'll quit again.
[After this one.]
[ John can see the internal debate going on here, or at least the fact that one is present. ]
Okay.
[ His palm is held out again. If it's just one, Sherlock... If it doesn't really count... If it's that important to you... ]
Okay.
[ His palm is held out again. If it's just one, Sherlock... If it doesn't really count... If it's that important to you... ]
[Sherlock can identify sentiment when he sees it. Of course. He may not always understand the cause of it, but sometimes he can-- cutting the wife out of a picture, giving away a gift. This, though... It's sentiment of some kind.
He's trying to make some sort of point. Even if Sherlock can't quite deduce what it is.
John is the doctor. The one with all the objections to smoking.
Sherlock does retrieve a book of matches from his pocket. More useful than a lighter, he's found. Much more manoeuvrable, which makes them much more suitable for a variety of situations. He doesn't hand them over yet, though, just watching John.]
These are poor quality. Hardly what someone should start with.
[Bluff? Excuse? Or is he being serious?]
He's trying to make some sort of point. Even if Sherlock can't quite deduce what it is.
John is the doctor. The one with all the objections to smoking.
Sherlock does retrieve a book of matches from his pocket. More useful than a lighter, he's found. Much more manoeuvrable, which makes them much more suitable for a variety of situations. He doesn't hand them over yet, though, just watching John.]
These are poor quality. Hardly what someone should start with.
[Bluff? Excuse? Or is he being serious?]
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