[ John nods and says no more for a moment. Silence, because he needs to think of something safe to say. Why? Because he's afraid of confrontation? He's started arguments over less, and so has Sherlock. Maybe that's it - this subject is important and raw. But he wants to know. Is it because Sherlock is sick? The moment is not opportune? If not now, though, when can this come up? If not now, maybe Sherlock will consider it laid to rest, and that's far from the truth. So is it a mercy? What had Sherlock done to deserve that?

John is frustrated, irritated, hurt... But he's not that angry, not really. He could slap Sherlock, could shake the hell out of him, but he could never, never hurt him. He could, theoretically, but he won't. John isn't like that. As they walk along, his eyes flit to their corners, taking quick little glances at the other man when he thinks Sherlock isn't looking. He's worried about him; of course he is. Sherlock has his pride, though, and he doesn't like John fussing. John's inclined to let him keep it for as long as it's still safe to do so. If Sherlock leans on John now, the doctor will take his weight and bear him along as if it's his own. He might be upset with the other man, but he wouldn't leave him sprawling in the dirt, just as he couldn't leave him bleeding out the night before.

The plaza and the clinic soon falls away, and there's a bridge ahead, stretched across a running river. It's overcast still from the earlier rain, and may be indicating more. ]

We're not on Earth anymore.

[ This seems like a good place to start. They've got about two hours to kill - spending it in silence seems wasteful. John needs the distraction of a conversation. ]

Supposedly that's what the wings are for. Some sort of way of adapting to the environment. Probably why it's such a critical thing when they're hurt.