theblogger | Appointments

[ 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.

They show up in the shops?

[He's almost startled.

Shops. Free to be taken-- by anyone. Clothes were easy enough, as were any "recreational" objects. Those didn't matter.

But his phone. Carefully tossed onto the roof, rather than falling with him. Picked up by the police then disappeared from the evidence locker and reappeared in the hand of Mycroft Holmes as he handed it over to his younger brother. His phone.

Out in the open, unpriced. If anyone took it-- if Moriarty got hold of it--]

My mobile. Look for it. [A beat. And then... a measure of how concerned he was about retrieving it:] Please.

That's right.

[ The tone also makes John snap to alertness, glancing over. Once he hears the concern, though... ]

It probably won't work, you know.

[ But a part of him is curious and reluctantly amused. ]

But I'll look for it.

[Sometimes, cases taught Sherlock things. Moriarty had taught him that nothing could be sacred. Baskerville had taught him true terror and that even his mind could perceive faulty stimuli as true. And the Woman...

had taught him to lock his phone with a password and carry around enough information to do damage.

It might come in handy someday. But he hadn't counted on... whatever the hell had brought him here.]

As long as it doesn't end up with Moriarty, I don't need it. [But he still wanted it. Important information or not, it was his mobile, and he was never far from it.]

I'll look for it.

[ The reassurance is a little more firm.

God knows the thing may as well have been welded to the other man's hand. The mention of Moriarty might mean it has sensitive information in it, though it could just as easily mean Sherlock didn't want his nemesis collecting any of his things. John certainly couldn't fault him for it. ]

Any other questions?

[ It is... not the wisest of queries to make, considering the subject, but Sherlock knows what he means. Questions John can possibly answer. ]

[A thousand.

But most of them were either about things not related to this current predicament-- questions about the life in London that an outside observer couldn't quite answer-- or else relied on information John didn't have or that he could find out for himself from the Guide John mentioned.

A good way to spend some of the promised week, he decided.

But there was one.]

What do you make of the place? Nothing technical or anything like that. Just you. Your impressions in the time you've been here. Instinct.

[He'd have time enough to explore for himself, but he wanted John's thoughts. John was so very good at taking in everything necessary... and bad at processing it himself.

...It was almost like before, asking that question.]

[ There is a familiarity to that question, followed by the familiar hesitance of whether or not Sherlock is having him on. No matter what he says, it will pale in comparison to what Sherlock is capable of calculating. John is logical and intelligent, but he's no genius. How he truly contributes to the other man's processes has always been a mystery to him, and often Sherlock outright informs him he's been ridiculous or missing steps. Still... he won't deny the man an answer. ]

There's something definitely off about it. There's a lot of... mismatch, I suppose.

[ There's a brief squint as he tries to think of how to phrase an instinct. ]

Everyone I've met seems pleasant, over all, once you move past some of the stranger things. Even if we're supposed to be meant for war, though, I haven't seen a lot of soldiers and I've only met a few doctors. Mostly it seems more like a... A zoo.

[ Is that what you were looking for, Sherlock? ]

That's it there. O-- The building.

[ He gestures to the shape of the community house up the way. Just a bit further, Sherlock. ]

Appointments

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