theblogger | Appointments

[ 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?

[I thought I could beat him.

He'd been so sure that he could understand the game. That he knew every move Moriarty was going to make. Even making sure John was occupied when it happened, going to find Mrs Hudson.

But he hadn't counted on the last gambit.]

There was no other way for it to end.

That's crap.

[ Blunt, honest. ]

You could have done something about it - you could have done something about it. Nothing would have ever held water if you hadn't --

[ No, no, getting too upset again. John grit his teeth again, jaw flexing powerfully with his restraint. ]

You thought you'd beat him at his own game, didn't you? That's why no protest, that's why you wouldn't tell me anything.

[ Like the Great Game, extending the hours of fear in a victim to try and get the upper hand. Going along to try and find the hitch; that one mistake. Always that pride. But... ]

You did get him, didn't you? What happened up there?

["Your only three friends in the world will die. Unless my people see you jump."

His features didn't change. ...But the fabric hiding his wings shook when the feathered appendages shook. Sherlock hated them more every second. Wilful things. Stop it.]

It was a game of chess. He... [God, he hated the words. He hated the words, and they made him want to be sick.] He had the better strategy. He played Mycroft. [A trace of bitterness. Knowing who it was that was a responsible for "Rich Brook"'s information.] And then he played me. There was no way for him to lose.

[A beat. A hard but silent swallow.]

But. If you get back to London-- Mycroft has everything. He'll settle things with Scotland Yard, reveal Moriarty. [It's the least he can do. Fix some of the mess he made.]

[ John is silent throughout Sherlock choking his way through admitting he was wrong. His wings jerked briefly at the mention of the older Holmes, but that was over quickly. If Sherlock thought John was angry at him...

Moriarty was truly a terror - John acknowledged that. But no way for him to lose? Hadn't the man shot himself in the face? That didn't seem much like winning to John. Had he agreed to do so if Sherlock jumped? That'd make a bit of sense, but John didn't see why Sherlock would trust Moriarty to follow through on his word... John certainly didn't trust him to adhere to a suicide pact. Why should he? The whole point of the game was to get Sherlock out of the way, right? To humiliate him, burn him?

John swallowed at the mention of London. Aside from the fact that it was home, he couldn't say he was really all that eager to return to it. ]

And you?

[ He turns his head just slightly, only to show an ear and maybe just the edge of an eye and nose. His voice feels rough, but he doesn't clear it. That'd almost be worse. ]

Assuming it's even possible to get out of here... Would I ever see you there again?

[ Did you really do it? Did you really kill yourself?

John had taken the pulse of the body splayed on the altar before Saint Bartholomew, and still he didn't want to believe it. ]

No.

[The word's harder to say than he expects, and his long fingers twitch along with his wings. If he lets himself bite his lip now, he'll draw blood, so he refrains. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet with a shuddering breath.

Pain...

But he'll take the pain. Perhaps it's retribution. Repayment for what he's done. For what he's failed to do.]

N-no... You... won't see me again. Not... not there.

[He won't look back at John, even as his covered wings flick hard against the fabric of the jacket.

He doesn't trust himself to look at John now.]

It's... [It would be easier to let John think he was really dead, but he can't do that. He can't give John anything else, but he can tell him this.]

It's better for everyone if I stay dead. If... I'm nothing more than a ghost.

[ The feathered appendages twitch a tighter embrace over John's shoulders, some attempt to hold on even as he feels his heart begin to sink. And there's a clawing of anger, too, the churn of bile and a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. It's something close to reliving the event over again, the tremor of the voice over the phone and the dark pedaling of limbs, sharing their helplessness with the way John had held his mobile at the time.

John does look this time, eyes drawing over naturally as Sherlock pushes to a stand. He watches the long line of the other's back and the tremor of the jacket. His mouth is exceedingly dry and Sherlock is saying he's not dead, but it's better if he is. Sherlock is saying he's not dead, but he is.

He's saying the world is better not to have him in it, at least, that's what John hears.

The thought snaps John to his feet, more power than he thought he'd have after a night of no sleep. It'd been bad enough trying to defend Sherlock against the press and his peers, but to have the man depreciate himself (and by extension, John) and suggest he didn't matter enough to anyone to be more than a gossip story or some slab of dark marble beneath a tree...

John shoves him, both hands hard against the shoulder blades, a motion that's both reproachful and challenging. ]

You stupid bastard. Are you having me on? When the hell did you start giving a damn about offending anyone?

Edited 2012-03-25 10:41 (UTC)

[The shove disorients him. Physically, it jars the wounds on his body and especially on his wing. He staggers, almost loses his footing, but regains it at the last moment.

Worse than that, though, it shakes him mentally. The anger is understandable, even acceptable. He's revealed that what John went through-- what he put John through-- was to tell a story. "I won't believe you told me a lie." He had told him a great lie, used him for the biggest deception.

But he can't tell John what Moriarty used against him in the end. He can't explain that if he isn't dead, all of them are in danger. If he's nothing more than a ghost, he can destroy Moriarty's web (and the mastermind, if he is still alive) without harm coming to those he would have died to save.]

It had to be done.

[Without explanation... Sherlock knows how hollow those words will be.

But he won't explain them. He can't.

He can only look John in the eye, standing as tall and as firm and as proud as he can manage while he waits for another shove.]

I'll do what has to be done.

Why? What is it that makes it so bloody imperative that you be dead?

[ John doesn't shove him. Not yet. He is, however, very much in Sherlock's space. ]

If you wanted rid of me, you know, I wouldn't have made you jump off Bart's for it. I'd have rather been useless for whatever you... whatever you had to do on your own than have you dead.

[ The final word is punctuated with another push, really more of a flat-palmed slap against the other's chest. Sherlock could have told him. John would have protested, but... But that was surely better than thinking the detective leapt to his death while John looked on like a complete, brainless idiot, debilitated by the weight of nothing more than a request and deep denial. It'd have been easier to stay strong for the man if John had had more to go on than a hunch and an unwillingness to deal with the thought of how much it hurt to lose him.

John stared back, eyes just a bit wider with his own will, and bright with whatever emotion he was pinning down as tightly as the wings on his shoulders. He wasn't as good at impassive as Sherlock was and he wasn't trying to be, but it'd be a grave mistake to let it out of control. ]

If that's your way of being nice, don't bother. You're shit at it. You're a great, bloody idiot.

[ A pause. ]

This is where you say you're sorry.

["This is where you say you're sorry."
I'm not.

But this isn't a case, and the lie won't come.]

I'm not going to say that.

[He had chosen his course of action because those were the only consequences he could live with.

John angry at him? He didn't like it. He wanted to explain everything. But it was better than John not being alive to be angry.

Lestrade wondering why he seemed so much more solemn toward him now? He was alive to wonder.

And Mrs Hudson was safe at Baker Street. He could sacrifice his name, his career, and all contact with them for the knowledge that they were alive and no longer in a position to be threatened by Moriarty. They meant nothing as long as he was dead, and that kept them safe.

His wings ruffled with every thought, flexing with the anxieties and pressing against his back to shield him from the regrets he had. Under John's gaze, they quivered slightly, possessed by some restlessness.]

Moriarty has to be destroyed. [One of so many reasons to stay dead.] It's... [Why was it so hard to give half-explanations now? He was so good at them usually.] A living man can't get away with everything that needs to be done to ensure that.

Edited 2012-03-26 03:46 (UTC)

[ The soldier definitely draws up at that, eyes narrowing with the refusal. By some miracle, John lets Sherlock get through his careful retort, even seems to weigh it for a moment, before he reaches up and swings a backhand at the younger man's face. It's with his right hand, but it's sharp nonetheless. Hit or miss, he makes a grab for the other's collar (his jacket), attempting to pull the fabric tight around the man just as he pulls the stubborn bastard toward his eye-level. ]

I don't care what sort of methods you want to employ against him, but that's not happening again, Sherlock, do you understand? And if I have to sit and watch you like a fucking nanny to make sure you don't go running off with your wing falling apart, I will do it. Let him run - he's not going to get very far. And with what he seems to be working at, he can't do much damage within the week.

[ The words fall out of him in a rush, and there's the lingering stare of seriousness, but there's something searching about the stare, too. ]

If you want nothing to do with me after the week's up, fine. But you'll do the week and you'll do it right. You owe me that.

[ For what it's worth. For what good it does, if Sherlock's going to go throw himself into danger again without him. ]

[Slapped, punched... Those are frequent enough.

But it has been a very long time since Sherlock Holmes was last backhanded. It connects, and he has the sense to know John could have hit harder, but he doesn't really think about that. Not like he normally would. Because there's a hand on the jacket collar-- two hands.

His own hand grabs the fabric of John's shirt, twists it as his shoulders square. Preparing to attack? Or defend himself from anything else?

For a moment, it's pure instinct in those light eyes, an unstable fire.

But he holds John's gaze long enough, really hears what he says, and the detective's taut form begins to relax. His face is stinging, but he's in no danger. This is still John. It's John.

Finally, he nods.]

I won't go after him. Not here. Not unless he comes after me [or you] first.

[A breath. Further consideration of the stinging in his cheek and what it meant the last time he'd been backhanded.]

I'll do the week. Then, you won't have to worry about playing nanny.

[ John draws in a breath as he's grabbed, eyes widening a fraction of a second, but he doesn't move. Sherlock has never looked at him like this, even when he's been in the most foul moods and they're wrapped in a spectacular row. A part of him thinks, for a singular moment, that the man might actually hurt him. It's not fear John feels (not quite) but it is something that makes him draw into himself a bit. Only when Sherlock nods and begins to speak, only when Sherlock takes a breath... does John realize he's been holding his own.

John breathes out, and some of his tension goes with it. His hands grow lax on the other's collar. ]

...Good.

[ This is quieter. Thank you.

It comes with a nod, too, and another breath before John's letting go, palms briefly brushing the taller man's shoulders before the contact on his end is gone entirely. His lips thin, thoughtful. ]

I understand why you did it, you know. I get it.

I just don't understand why you couldn't trust Mrs. H and me after. We wouldn't have told anyone.

[ I could have helped. ]

[It takes Sherlock a moment longer to release John, but not out of any kind of prolonged threat. No... Whatever lit his eyes is gone, sunk back deep within and the surface has stilled. There's a reluctance to let go, but Sherlock masters it and steps back.

Here... Here, he can be a little more honest.]

You're being watched. All of you. Moriarty-- or his agents, if he really is dead. [Doubtful.] If I'd contacted any of you [especially you] he or any of his connections still alive and active would have found out. I couldn't risk that. [It sounds selfish, and he knows it. It sounds like he couldn't risk Moriarty or his men finding him. But he won't explain. Let John think that. It's better than him knowing just how sentimental he's gotten.

Except...] Mycroft's watched you, too. Kept an eye on all of you.

[and:] So have I.

[ Perhaps surprisingly, John doesn't immediately seem upset by this explanation. Instead, he simply turns and goes back to his place at the tree, to pick up the bin of supplies. If Sherlock's up, they might as well move some. ]

We put on a good show, I'm sure.

[ This tone is rather hollow, not meant to sting, just a simple fact. ]

[With John, at this moment, Sherlock knows when not to say anything.

The less said, the better.

But he does move to begin walking in the way they were headed, letting out a quiet breath in a sound that is almost a sigh.]

[ All things considered, it's probably the most tactical decision that Sherlock has made sense coming here, second only, perhaps, to agreeing to lay down and rest for the time being.

But are they really going to leave Moriarty alone? Technically, with the way things started off, the sort of have to, don't they? It makes John uneasy, but one of the last things he wants to do is start trouble in an unknown territory without a very good reason and a half decent plan.

John falls into step beside Sherlock once more. For now, he's willing to let the silence last, because it's an uneasy one. It's one Sherlock deserves to endure at the moment, with his mind pointed toward the fact that people had mourned him beneath all the slander of the press and the fact that watching hadn't done them any favors. ]

Edited 2012-03-26 08:45 (UTC)

Are there more shops on the way?

[The question comes after a considerable time in silence.

He knows there's one back over the bridge, but that's too far to consider turning 'round and going back to at this point. He doesn't know where they're going, really, and he especially doesn't know the layout of this village.

Sherlock's hands reveal his intentions. The fingers stretch and contract a bit, and the thumb and index finger slip across each other... the same sort of habit he does when checking the rolling of a cigarette, tapping the end to be sure.

Silence, he can bear. But the tension in this quiet makes him want a cigarette.

...or something stronger...

But a cigarette will do.]

Nothing from here on out but houses.

[ Awful, isn't it? The lack of a convenience store on every other block or so on top on miles and miles to walk.

John's not looking much at the other, but he doesn't seem to be avidly avoiding it, either. His eyes flicker over their surroundings, echoes of wariness still lingering from his first days. Not a wise idea to get comfortable, even if life seemed simple enough. ]

I'll go and check the shops for your things tomorrow. Sometimes they come in through that way if they don't come with you.

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