[ John knew what Sherlock wanted - silence on his word and no questions asked, an issue slipped under the rug. Like they used to. Around this point of a confrontation, it was either tactfully drop the argument or be prepared for something vicious, a slamming door and the cold snap of London. It was almost difficult to believe that John was taking any cues from Sherlock after the time that had passed without him, and the fact that he was more than a little exhausted, but he was. He could sense the tension and usually, usually that would be enough of a warning to make him think twice about whether or not the argument was worth pushing. There was no usual in this case.
John didn't know if he could leave it be. While he was truly relieved that Sherlock was alive, he still didn't know what had happened to push him over the brink in the first place. Therefor he had absolutely no way of knowing if it was going to happen again and, if so, how soon it'd be. It hadn't been like throwing oneself into a dangerous situation - the real crisis, as far as John knew, had been averted the moment James Moriarty ate the end of a pistol.
It frustrated him. Either Sherlock didn't trust John to know (and when had he ever been shy about calling John an idiot?) or else it was exceedingly personal. Either way, Sherlock was a fucking idiot and John was almost more angry that an explanation was being denied to him than the act itself.
The statement, however, gives John pause. He's not looking at the other now, but the tone, the implication that there's something more to the man than the cold machinations of his mind, something almost fragile, has provoked John nonetheless. The inhale he takes is not an even one. Of course Sherlock wouldn't like hospitals, what with the times he's probably been laid up in them for pushing his drug addiction too far and chasing leads without anyone to back him up. And it could, of course, be an allusion to the very last time he'd been in or, rather, on top of a hospital. John hated hospitals, too, especially when he happened to be a patient. Especially when he was watching their rooftops denying the unthinkable. If Sherlock was trying to appeal to the doctor's sense of sympathy, it was fucking working, and John hated them both for it.
He exhaled slowly through his nose before reaching for Sherlock again, this time to wrap a hand around the other's bare shoulder. John pulled the younger man toward him slowly, his other hand wielding the syringe like it was attached. This time, if Sherlock felt anything when it slipped into the skin over his shoulder, it'd be the burn of the injection and nothing more. ]
no subject
John didn't know if he could leave it be. While he was truly relieved that Sherlock was alive, he still didn't know what had happened to push him over the brink in the first place. Therefor he had absolutely no way of knowing if it was going to happen again and, if so, how soon it'd be. It hadn't been like throwing oneself into a dangerous situation - the real crisis, as far as John knew, had been averted the moment James Moriarty ate the end of a pistol.
It frustrated him. Either Sherlock didn't trust John to know (and when had he ever been shy about calling John an idiot?) or else it was exceedingly personal. Either way, Sherlock was a fucking idiot and John was almost more angry that an explanation was being denied to him than the act itself.
The statement, however, gives John pause. He's not looking at the other now, but the tone, the implication that there's something more to the man than the cold machinations of his mind, something almost fragile, has provoked John nonetheless. The inhale he takes is not an even one. Of course Sherlock wouldn't like hospitals, what with the times he's probably been laid up in them for pushing his drug addiction too far and chasing leads without anyone to back him up. And it could, of course, be an allusion to the very last time he'd been in or, rather, on top of a hospital. John hated hospitals, too, especially when he happened to be a patient. Especially when he was watching their rooftops denying the unthinkable. If Sherlock was trying to appeal to the doctor's sense of sympathy, it was fucking working, and John hated them both for it.
He exhaled slowly through his nose before reaching for Sherlock again, this time to wrap a hand around the other's bare shoulder. John pulled the younger man toward him slowly, his other hand wielding the syringe like it was attached. This time, if Sherlock felt anything when it slipped into the skin over his shoulder, it'd be the burn of the injection and nothing more. ]
Five minutes to pack up and then we'll leave.