[ John is working. A week and he's back, for better or worse, and no one says anything about it. He outranks the other personnel by seniority and he (the other John) seems to know well enough to leave himself to it. Truth be told, if this was home, John doesn't know if he could have done it, but he's been here for over half a year now, and here isn't London. When things happen here, this medbay is the last defense; there's no A&M, no little clinics dotting the city. There's only seven of them - what they do matters. And, well, he doesn't have much else to do anymore, does he? This is sort of what he imagined life would have been like after the war, had he never been up to the prospect of having a flatmate. Work, day in and day out. And John's been given a project. He throws himself on it.
There's a pile of thumb drives next to John, who sits at one of the counters flicking through his communicator to read each. The print on each are frankly tiny, but there are a few consistent words: 'gene', 'recombinant', 'embryonic', 'medicine'.
John glances up when he hears Reaper, his assigned bodyguard (not John's choice), shifts. A second later, Sherlock walks through the door. For a moment, John's face slackens to see him, surprised, but then his eyelids dip, head tilting just so slightly. Maybe Sherlock recognizes the look, maybe he doesn't: it wasn't who John was expecting.
But the doctor tilts his head in a subtle sign of invitation, reaching one-handed to rub at his eyes as he sets the communicator down. ]
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There's a pile of thumb drives next to John, who sits at one of the counters flicking through his communicator to read each. The print on each are frankly tiny, but there are a few consistent words: 'gene', 'recombinant', 'embryonic', 'medicine'.
John glances up when he hears Reaper, his assigned bodyguard (not John's choice), shifts. A second later, Sherlock walks through the door. For a moment, John's face slackens to see him, surprised, but then his eyelids dip, head tilting just so slightly. Maybe Sherlock recognizes the look, maybe he doesn't: it wasn't who John was expecting.
But the doctor tilts his head in a subtle sign of invitation, reaching one-handed to rub at his eyes as he sets the communicator down. ]