theblogger | Appointments

[ 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. ]

[Sherlock flipped a couple of pages over, skimming what was written. Unimportant things, a few personal matters.]

Wonderful to know human nature never changes--

Still convinced everyone wants nothing more than to know the intimate details of their dull, dull lives.

[But there are a few things worth further inspection. When the words don't blur together from looking at them too carefully.

He pushes off the bridge, steadying himself after briefly wavering. No. No, he's fine. Able to continue on the walk.

Sherlock is silent for a short while. Then, his eyes cast over John again. He detects no sign of anything, but he'd rather hear it, just to be sure. And he'll know if John lies to him.]

Injured? Anything done except the wings?

["I'd go for the hands." "...a few measly kilograms to crush the bones..."

"Though that's probably fixed now, isn't it?"]

Not just humans.

[ And that's all he's going to say about that. Of course he disagrees, but this is not the battle he's going to fight today, if any.

He shuts the journal once more and carefully deposits it into the bin of medical supplies before picking it up. ]

Fine.

[ He's lying, but it's a tender thing. Very hard to be snappish in the face of genuine concern (reading between the lines here). Physically, though, he is unharmed.

His wings draw in a little tighter to his back, and he'll wait on Sherlock to start walking again before he'll fall in line next to him. ]

[Uninjured, at least.

Sherlock took his steps carefully. He could feel the ground shift beneath him, feel his head threaten to blur his vision. Still, he wouldn't let himself waver. He wouldn't stumble.

He would manage to get to John's flat and sleep off the after effects of this.

Perhaps he'd even wake up tomorrow to find himself curled up in a hospital bed or on the sofa of Mycroft's flat or leaned against a rain-soaked wall... and find this all some sort of fevered dream. Too much work, too much cocaine or heroin... or he'd mixed the two again. It still seemed surreal, beyond impossible. Yet the strain in his body spoke to its likelihood of being reality.]

You said there was no currency. [Something to talk about. If he talked, he was not alone in his thoughts. He could try and distract himself.] How does the system work, then? Bartering?

[ Removing Sherlock from the clinic was probably a poor idea. John wouldn't have gone for it if it'd been anyone else. He probably could have pushed the man to stay another day, but...

They weren't halfway there yet. It wasn't too late to go back yet. He'd see how Sherlock did, though. Another mile (maybe just half) and they'd sit. There were trees around to lean against. It wasn't like John himself walked two hours without stopping himself, and he was still hale. ]

The shops here just give things away. You go in and take what you like. Among other villagers, though... I've no idea. All the ones I've met so far have been helpful.

There's a clothing store, a cafe, a nightclub, armory, general supply, and something called the battledome. Haven't really had a good look at it yet, but there's a second clinic there that has equipment a little closer to what we'd be used to.

[Well. That solved a few problems they'd faced living at Baker Street.

Shops giving things away freely. How did they support themselves? How did they get new stock? But John had been here, he'd said, a week. Now wasn't the time to question economics. He couldn't bring himself to care enough. Perhaps the guide talked more on it. Or perhaps not.

He took every step more carefully than he liked. His vision blurred sometimes, but he ignored that, pushing through it. More than once, his fingers extended, as if preparing to grab at John's shoulder to keep himself steady, but he never reached for the other man. His wings flicked under the jacket every time he almost faltered, as if in quiet reprimand for refusing help. Or stubbornly insisting on leaving the hospital.

His question is more to himself than to John:] Why are there no cabs?

[ Not having to worry so much about currency was a liberating thing... However, it wasn't exactly as if things were truly free. They were still here, against their will, at the mercy of the unknown machinations of a barely known entity. ]

Seriously. Not a lot of technology here to be had. Seems investing in a bicycle might be the next order of business.

[ And this brings the rather unwarranted image of gangly Sherlock perched on the handlebars, because like hell he'll endure actual manual labor. John muffles a snort and shakes his head. Amusement was one of the very last things he'd been expecting to have today. ]

Do you mind if we stop here?

[ Gesturing to the shade of a tree with roots that gnarl up. John's stopped there before, and remembers several perfectly comfortable places to sit and read against the trunk. He was aware of Sherlock's few missteps, even began to shift a bit closer with his next step in case the man should fall, but in the end he rocked away. Fussing - he didn't want to fuss and Sherlock certainly didn't deserve it. He did deserve the break, though. ]

Edited 2012-03-24 09:12 (UTC)

["Do you mind"

Sherlock knows the intention, and he almost wants to press on out of spite for it. Still... he knows he's tired.

He steps forward toward the tree, wavering as he goes. Carefully, he knelt in the grass and pressed his back against the tree. His eyes closed briefly while he let the world stop spinning. Not that he'd admit he was unsteady.]

Bicycles.

For everything this place has... How does it not have cabs?

[Even after all the trouble cabs had caused him, he still wanted one.]

[ The older man, in the meantime, settles against the crook in one of the roots, setting his parcel aside and slowly stretching his legs. John doesn't have an answer for him, of course. He thinks of cabs and how many hours he must have spent in them just within the past two years. Probably more than the rest of his earlier life combined. Cabs were expensive, especially in London. Were it not for Sherlock, John would have very certainly been packing his way into the tube, and had whenever he was on his own. ]

Do you plan to say anything about it?

[ It falls out of him before he's quite realized, but after a moment of pressed lips and a swallow, he sets his hand on his chin and looks away. He doesn't indicate what he's talking about, but it's clearly not cabs. ]

Anything at all?

[Sherlock looked straight ahead. He didn't turn to glance at John.

Instead, he looked at the way they had come.

He knew what he ought to say. There were apologies to offer, explanations to give, and forgiveness to ask for. Instead, though, he simply raised and lowered his shoulders.]

What is there to say?

[He couldn't tell John what had happened. He couldn't explain why he had jumped, why he had made John watch. It wouldn't change anything, wouldn't make anything better.]

[ No, it probably wouldn't, and yet John wanted to hear it anyway. It didn't change a thing - what had happened, happened - but neither had letting it eat at him, which he'd done anyway. ]

What is there to -- ?

[ John's pitch jumps with incredulity, anger. His wings unfurl from their tight knot against his back just slightly, feathers inflating a little with annoyance. With his jacket (his armour) shed for the sake of Sherlock's dignity, it's easy to tell what the appendages get up to. Even so, for someone who's known him as long as Sherlock, and for someone who prides themselves on noticing details, everything is in the the way John's shoulders pull back a little.

And how he catches and reigns himself in the next moment, must be biting his lip except it's not clear because he's not looking at Sherlock. There's a pause. ]

You knew it was going to happen, didn't you? You knew Mrs. Hudson wasn't really hurt. How long did you know before that?

[Sherlock felt his wings fold in against his back, sinking slightly under the borrowed jacket. His expression didn't change, save perhaps for an almost closing of his eyes, but he was not turning to look at John. He caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, but that was all.

It was easier if he didn't look, easier if he removed himself as much as possible. Kept his mind on the simple facts, the logical progression of events. There was no need for emotion to enter into the equation. No reason to think about motives or loyalties.

What had happened had happened, and the dead were best remaining that way.

Still...

Still, John's question deserved an answer.]

I had my suspicions early on, but I was sure by the time the first assassin died. [How long? He could make an estimate.] Eighteen hours or so.

[ Earlier than he would have thought. Eighteen hours. Sherlock had solved many cases in less. ]

And you didn't say anything about it to anyone.

[ To me, was the implication. John's wings rustled, restless, before they stretched enough to curl themselves around his shoulders, a motion they had done all of his first day, plastering there. ]

You just played along. Why?

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