theblogger | Appointments

[ John observes the reaction, fingers twitching away momentarily at the tremble before seeking contact again. He delicately puts his fingers around the thumb portion of the wing, trying to slowly pull it to an extended position so he could see how it had healed. From what he understood, magic could seal the wound, but blood loss was another issue. Hence the pills. ]

We're in a village called Luceti. I woke up here... eight days ago?

[ As if nothing had happened, and yet John's doing everything he can not to look at Sherlock. His tongue flickers across his lips. ]

There's some written information about it you can look over. Since you'll be just as you are for a few more days, you'll have plenty of time.

Suffice to say, we're not in London anymore and this?

[ A faint squeeze to the other's wing. ]

This is just the start. There's a barcode on the back of your neck as well.

[ His tone doesn't change, but his eyes finally move over. ]

What do you remember?

[ Because Lestrade hadn't known. Yet still, the way that Sherlock had looked at him last night... he knew something. ]

[Sherlock looks over at John sharply at the mention of days. Eight days. Over a week. His keen eyes flash over the Army doctor in seconds, affirming that... that he wasn't hurt. He wasn't tortured.

There's a relief on his features, even as his wing flutters lightly under the attentions. It resists the extension, and he winces a bit, but it's certainly healing. A compliant bird with a wounded wing, submitting to a trusted owner or vet's look-over.

...But the mention of a barcode makes Sherlock tense, and he raises his hand to touch the back of his neck, as if he expects to be able to feel it.

Then there's the question.

Sherlock looks at the wall again, and both his wings quiver, the unharmed one extending (with the battered one doing its best) before they try to pull back against him. Anxiety followed by a heavy guard.

He could lie...]

Not enough to understand how I got here.

[...Or pretty much not answer.]

[ It's difficult not to pay attention to the shifting of the wings when they're doing so under his hands. John lets the wing go when it tries to pull back, having seen it well enough to gauge the condition. At first, his instinct had told him to pull instead, because now John was almost certain Sherlock was avoiding the question, and John was sick of lies. He wanted to pull and twist, just enough to make the other man know he meant business, but he didn't. He couldn't. Not yet. ]

No one knows how they got here.

Take the pills. They're to help with the blood you've lost.

[ Or he's got an injection he can prepare if you're going to be stubborn. ]

Edited 2012-03-20 06:43 (UTC)

I'm fine.

[But he knows. He knows he would have been in a far different position if John hadn't been at his side last night.

A lot of situations might have played out differently without John there.

But there's no time for sentiment. His wings ruffle. He wants to pretend it's in agreement with his thoughts, not in defiance of them.]

Where's Moriarty?

[That's what is important here. Not the wings. Not the past. Not everything unsaid.

Moriarty.

Why was John fussing over him? Telling him to take pills they both knew he wouldn't? Easing an impossible wing into movement to check it?

He should be going after Moriarty.]

[ There's a slow breath through John's nose, a precursor to a fraying patience. Fine. Have it your way, you contrary bastard.

The doctor plucks up a syringe from the bedside table, readied from the times he'd been administering the drug before. John could be kind - he could put it into the IV that's already in Sherlock's hand.

He slips it into the man's upper arm instead. John has good hands, steady and precise - a surgeon's hands. But he makes it hurt, twitches the needle just enough to burn as he pushes the plunger and administer's the injection. It takes less than a second. ]

Who's to say?

[ Thank god for his jacket and the lack of holes in it; his wings shift restlessly on his back with his quiet aggression. ]

[Sherlock's expression contorts briefly, but... Well. There are other marks. None all that old. Pinpricks at the crook of his arm. Evidence of the bite of other needles, the burn of poisons in his blood. Poisons he can tell himself help him work or sleep.

But he accepts the treatment without audible protest. Perhaps a faint narrowing of the eyes. Perhaps he draws up a bit. But he doesn't say anything about it.

Acknowledging any oddity in John's behaviour means he might have to address the underlying cause. He knows what it is, but... that doesn't mean he'll talk about it.]

How big is this place? Where can he go? He'll try to go underground, try to hide. If he manages that--

[He won't go back to square one. He won't start over again. He won't lose everything he's managed to do.]

I'm fine.

[Already, his hand is at the IV in the other, feeling it. He has too much practice taking this sort of thing off himself, and he's just contemplating how best to do it in this instance.]

We're-- [is that right? are they in this together?] I'm-- [is he alone?]

There's no time to sit around a hospital.

I'm fine.

[ John doesn't respond to the questions. He simply does not respond, other than to stare at the younger man. And he steps forward, he leans over the man some, into some of his personal space, eyes narrowing as he reaches to catch the wrist of Sherlock's exploring hand. ]

You're going to be doing a lot of sitting around for the next few days, and it's either going to be in a flat or it's going to be here. I will do whatever it takes to make sure of that.

[ Do you understand?

John has never pushed quite like this before, but things are different from when they last met. ]

Sod Moriarty. There are bigger things than him now, and you're in no state to deal with either of them.

["There are bigger things than him now."

Sherlock looks up sharply. It's an insult. He wants to tell himself it's not an intentional insult, but it is. Not being told that he can't take anything on right now. That might be true enough. But... bigger things than Moriarty.

Don't act like you know what's going on. Don't talk to me like you understand.

The look, for a few seconds, is almost vicious. Almost the gleam of the man who had Moriarty by the throat. But something tempers any anger.

This is still John.

You don't understand.

But John mentioned something else. Something that makes Sherlock settle a bit. "It's either going to be in a flat or it's going to be here."

He does his best to sound casual, but the way his wings are still tense and even ruffling a bit contradicts that.]

There are flats?

[ The look makes John grit his jaw, but he doesn't move off. No, he may not understand, but that doesn't mean that he's wrong, either. Right now, objectively, he knows that Moriarty isn't nearly as much of a threat as the mysterious Malnosso, who send them forth as a personal army and pull them from their beds for experiments. They're worse than Moriarty, in a way. At least Moriarty's destruction has a finality to it.

You don't know.

It's one of the few times that he's got an advantage of knowledge over the detective, but he's not entirely smug over it. Soon enough, Sherlock will know as well and, if he doesn't acknowledge that Moriarty is currently a small fish at the moment, he's biased and that's all there is to it. John owes no allegiance or reverence to Moriarty as a criminal mind. The fact that Sherlock is offended now is a matter of pride.

John lets him go, shifting back at the question, moving for another needle on the bedside table. This one he'll have to prepare from one of the liquid medications nearby. ]

Did you think I built a tent? There are flats. Mine has three bedrooms and one bath. No kitchen, though. It's a shared one for the floor.

[For Sherlock, it's too personal. If he is here and John is here and Moriarty is here... There is only one priority: Eliminate the threat Moriarty represents.

Whatever the cost.

...In another time-- In another life, Sherlock Holmes would have simply presumed that one of those bedrooms was for him. But he's intelligent enough to know how much he changed things. He jumped off a building. He made John watch. He used John for a singular purpose: to convince the world that he was dead. Because if John Watson believed it, no one else would question it.

He'd called himself a fraud. He'd insisted it was a magic trick. And now he was face-to-face with one of the few people he'd never planned on letting know anything about all of this.

He knew there would be consequences. No matter how much he'd like to pretend there wouldn't be. So he did not assume John would share his flat.]

Then I need to see someone about letting one. The people in charge must have my wallet. I suppose they'll take the necessary payment from one of the cards.

There's no landlords and no currency, for that matter. The flats are open to anyone - found the keys just lying on the table. Everything here is free.

[ John wasn't entirely certain of where he stood with Sherlock. The man wasn't talking about the situation they'd left off at (and oh, John knew they were on the same page here - there was no way Sherlock would have had this attitude if they were still in Devon; everything about his mannerisms said guilty, even if Sherlock himself didn't look remorseful) and it was beginning to put John's teeth on edge. John didn't know if Sherlock was here because it was all a ruse or if it was some miracle performed by the Malnosso, but either way, Sherlock had jumped, hadn't he? And John had watched. John had buried him and mourned. He'd cut ties for this, had endured assaults from almost every angle of the media (he had to shut down the blog and change his email), and gone to therapy for this. He had nightmares.

And Sherlock wouldn't say anything about it.

John tapped the syringe with his knuckle and vacated air from the end. ]

If you want to leave the clinic, you'll have to come with me. You'll also have to do as I say, unless you'd like to be sedated for your recovery.

[ Whatever it takes. He wasn't just threatening that. John wasn't playing - he'd be damned if he just stood there while Sherlock tried to kill himself again.

Maybe that was a good enough answer to himself regarding whether or not he still cared after all that had happened. ]

[Remorse was useless. Pointless. He had done precisely what he needed to do. Nothing had been without cause. From sending John away to that last phone call to keeping an eye on John after without ever showing himself.

But, try as he might to claim a disconnection with humanity... He could understand the gravity of what he did. He knows how far he crossed the line. He knows he burned his bridges. All for a singular purpose: to stop Moriarty.

He had orchestrated everything to lull Moriarty into thinking he'd won. He had carried it out to save his friends. He had disappeared in case Moriarty was still alive.

But he would not explain himself. Sherlock could not, though, ignore John's concern. He could seem to, certainly. His expression did not shift in the slightest. His wings, though, seemed to settle closer to his back, more relaxed.]

I'd prefer a flat.

[Something in his voice wavered ever so slightly, some hint of... something human:] I'm not fond of hospitals.

[ 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. ]

Five minutes to pack up and then we'll leave.

[Despite the roughness of the last injection, Sherlock is perfectly still when the syringe is wielded again. It goes in easily this time, just a nip and then the push, and that's it.

Any explanation would do, and he knows it. There are a thousand ways to lie about what happened or to reiterate what he'd said then. But he wouldn't lie. He owed John that much right now.

That didn't mean he'd tell him what had really happened, though. ...John doesn't need to know that. He doesn't deserve to have that on his mind ever.]

Good.

[And then he hears Molly's voice in his head. The reminder she'll give him, where others know not to even think about it.]

Thank you.

[ John's head may have turned ever so slightly toward the other at the thanks, and maybe his fingers shifted a bit on Sherlock's shoulder. And maybe not; hard to say, since in the next moment John was moving off again, returning to the table upon which he'd gathered the medication.

Silently, he shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders, revealing sleeves still rolled up to the elbows from the earlier procedure and the shifting tension in his shoulders. His wings flexed with the disappearance of weight and sudden vulnerability, folding into a tight, tan line down his spine. The jacket is dropped, blindly, on the bed and in Sherlock's lap. It'll be a little short on the man's torso, but John's shoulders are wider than his - it should work for the time it takes to get to the flat. ]

Lestrade and Sally Donovan are here as well. Lestrade a few days before me, I think, Donovan maybe hours after.

[ This should be enough to go on for the few days. He'll need to find a medical bag of some sort to carry all of it in. In the meantime, the local anesthetic he gave Sherlock can get to work numbing up the area around his wing and possibly through the nerves of it. It's hardly a real painkiller, but it'll do until walking is no longer needed. ]

[Lestrade and Donovan.

Just what he needed.

Moriarty. Lestrade. and Donovan.]

Let me guess. Mycroft's due to arrive tomorrow.

[Cool, maybe a little bitter. But he's on his feet, pulling on the offered jacket.

He gets to his feet a bit uneasily, but he gets up.]

How far are we going?

[More so he can decide whether to push himself to get to a short distance quickly or to take his time so he can maintain a slow pace over a long distance than out of real concern for any location in this odd place.]

Mm. Then we'd both have a reputation for irrational violence against newcomers.

[ He won't say anything about his attitude toward Sally Donovan. ]

Around ten miles, I'd say. The building is at the edge of the village and we're somewhere in the center.

[ Right, ok, we're moving now? Alright. This empty bin will do - putting the supplies in there, ready when you are. ]

[...Ten miles.

This will be hard to bear without stopping, but he will manage it. He can do no less.

Step by step, trying to keep a normal pace, but he's still unsteady. Off balance, with the damage to his wing, and he doesn't have adrenaline pushing him on. Only the simple desire to get out of the hospital and into somewhere at least a little less clinical.

He can't quite delude himself into thinking he's going back to Baker Street-- his wings ruffle excitedly at the sheer thought-- but he can hope it's better than this place.]

Twenty miles across, then.

In the middle of nowhere. You'll see.

[ Luceti is nothing like London, and hardly even close to England. It's mostly rural here, and outside it seems completely wild. Sherlock is probably going to hate it. ]

Suppose I should explain journals to you, since there aren't any phones about now. They're sort of like one of those social networking sites, except it's all done through a book. You've got mine in your pocket.

[ And he's got yours, in the bin. ]

There's a guide in there that's marked. Lengthy, but it'll explain a bit.

[ And substitute talking. Nevertheless, he walks at Sherlock's side, watching him out of the corner of his eye. They'll be needing a few breaks, obviously, but he doesn't doubt the man's stubbornness will be able to get him to Community House 2. When they get there, too, it'll probably time for both of them to pass out. ]

Edited 2012-03-21 07:13 (UTC)

I'll read it at the flat. [After sleeping.

He can already tell that as soon as he makes it to the flat, he is going to need to sleep. Until then, he can press on...

Thank God John is alongside, though. Sherlock keeps his strides even with John's. He won't lean on the soldier, no. Nothing of the sort. He's not even sure he'd be allowed to do so. But there's some comfort in being close enough to do it, in knowing he might be able to brace himself for a moment against a solid body that won't immediately let him stumble.

"Your only three friends in the world."

But at least John will walk with him here. For now.]

[ 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.

[Sherlock makes it to the bridge. He stops to admire the view-- the rushing river, the overcast sky... but it says something that he leans against the wood railing. His shoulders rise and fall slowly but hard, discreetly trying to catch his breath.

He listens, nodding.]

And now he knows.

[Not that it matters.

Moriarty would have found out anyway.

Sherlock closes his eyes. He might look like he's thinking, but the shift of his weight says differently. Trying to change the centre of the pain, trying not to let it show that he wasn't steady on his feet. If he asked, he was sure he could get John to stop for a few moments. Let him find his bearings again.

But that would require asking a favour of John. No doubt he'd used up all of those. The last one... was far too much. He will need to come up with something to say about it. Sherlock knows that. But what is there to say? He did what he did. Does he claim to have been dead? Or does he admit what happened?

What good does either do? None.

So there's no need to say anything.]

So do you.

[ So?

John sets the bin down on the floor of the bridge, joining the other man. He crossed his arms over the rail, peering down to watch the water filter its way beneath the structure, judging the current by the way the water lapped the support columns. There is a gentle breeze stirred by the rush and the weather, rolling over John's shoulders and tickling his feathers. He lets them loose enough to allow the air to push them open. It is an odd sensation, almost calming. If his wing brushes the other's shoulder, he can't be blamed any more than he can be blamed for the weather. ]

We were brought along here by a group called the Malnosso, apparently for some sort of experimentation. Haven't seen any of that myself, but apparently it's sort of frequent.

[ A pause. ]

As is war with some other group called the Third Party. Villagers get drafted to fight periodically, sometimes without warning.

From one war to another.

[Because they were fighting a war. Or had been. He had come from fighting the same war but on a more hidden front. Fighting from the shadows and alleyways, watching from rooftops, sending his people with phones to keep him on call and with visual access to what he needed.

But... John had gotten out of that war. He'd been let go from the duties he'd never asked for. His shoulders hunch in when he feels the brush of the tips of feathers. An unintended movement, one would think. Because why would Sherlock Holmes shy away? He certainly had no concept of personal space. Under the borrowed coat, his own wings flicked against the fabric.

He looked at the water, watched it flow. He had been so close. Had felt the man's breath giving way under his hands. ...And, while he would not say it, he'd felt the rush. He'd understood the high that could be gotten from the act. He could understand the serial killers, the impulse to do it again and again. Another sensation to chase away the ever pressing boredom.

His wings beat hard against the coat he wore, protesting the thought as he hid all other signs of repulsion at himself.]

We're here for their sport.

Sometimes they kidnap individuals from the village itself to do more concentrated experiments. That's supposedly what the barcode's for - tracking. Makes it easy to pick up who they want.

[ His wings flex before snapping shut again, shifting with slow restlessness on his back. His eyes may have flickered over briefly at the sound of hammering against the jacket, but he didn't acknowledge it further. Something, though, felt sated in him. Sherlock was upset by it, was how he was taking it. ]

Nasty business all around. Apparently they give out technology like treats if we've done well enough.

[ John's hand slips over, into Sherlock's (his) jacket pocket to procure his journal. He rests it upon the railing of the bridge, flipping it open to where he last left off to skim some of the latest entries. ]

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