psl.

[docwithablog]

the first | action
the second | random scenario
the third | action
the fourth | texting
the fifth | action
the sixth | action
the seventh | shipping picture prompt
the eighth | action
the ninth | texting
the tenth | texting
the eleventh | action
the twelfth | texting
the thirteenth | action
the fourteenth | texting
the fifteenth | action
the sixteenth | action
the seventeenth | action (unfinished)

Comments

the first.

[docwithablog]

[ A year after ending his community service with them, he's still working with the Barbican Homeless Centre's Emergency Response Team. He's really only scheduled to clock in for the odd weekend night shifts, but on busy (read: awful) days during the week, he'll show up for their evening briefings and ask to be put to use. Fortunately -- or perhaps, not so fortunately, they're always a couple of hands short and he's always got a pair to lend, so no one asks questions, least of all John. He takes whatever assignments land on their table, waits for Hugh to drive them to the scene and does what it takes to get things under control. Oh, but it's a lovely little illusion, isn't it? That things can actually get under control again.

Well, maybe they can. For some people.

Tonight's been a busy one. They'd already had two code orange calls when someone alerted them to a man in Regent's Park who's definitely passed out, possibly under the influence and could they check that he isn't, what do they know, choking on his own vomit, please. They had looked at each other knowingly, because the man's vomit is probably the least of his worries currently, before packing their things and gathering in the van. Halfway there, a second call cut through, a code red from the other end of town involving a mass fight, broken bottles, the circus, so in the end -- well, they'd dropped John off at Regent's Park with his kit, although they normally never work alone, the rest of the team heading for Neasden.

The sun's beginning to set. The sky's blushing. It's all very -- yes, very pretty and John Watson has a homeless person to save, doesn't he? North end, drinking fountain, they'd said. Stupid sod's better not actually tried to move. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ He's managed to frighten off the two passerbyers who tried to shake him awake (being, apparently, incapable of discerning between the breathing pattern of a sleeping person and a resting person, how perfectly ordinary) and now, the park feels quiet around him, this particular corner by the drinking fountain for the most part deserted, save for the odd pigeon or duck passing by, dropping in, taking off. He's lying on his left side, ribs still sore on the right, back turned away from the walking path.

He keeps thinking about 221B. The relative emptiness of it, the seemingly random traces of John still left here and there, somehow enhancing the feeling of departure. His. Sherlock watches the wooden back of the bench, the lines in the wood. Blinks at it, uselessly, and shifts. He's propped his head up onto his elbow and it's a bit awkward, the posture straining his shoulder and upper arm.

John's saved at least one person today, he knows. Somehow, the thought makes his chest feel heavy, like something inside of him is dragging him down, towards the dirt beneath the bench and further yet. He stays where he is, for now. Tomorrow, perhaps. Tomorrow, he'll find a way for them to meet, something properly dramatic. Something that'll feel more like before, something that'll make them both forget that John's been continuously digging himself out of a hole roughly the size and shape of Sherlock's bloody imprints on the pavement next to Barts two years prior. ]

the third.

[docwithablog]

[ It had been weirdly unproblematic and, really, just plain weird going to sleep alongside Sherlock. He'd borrowed a pair of pyjama bottoms from the other man, before climbing to bed, at least a good five inches too long in the trouser legs and as such, pooling around his feet, but it wasn't like it was going to matter once he was actually lying down. It wasn't like it mattered, compared to all the rest.

Strangely enough, he'd fallen asleep relatively quickly. More quickly than was his usual routine, a couple of hours of wakefulness ending on the note of some whiskey to help his very present, very pressing tiredness along. It had been indescribably nice to close his eyes and -- well, fall into the sound of Sherlock's breathing. Rest on the realization of togetherness.

Could get used to this, had been his last conscious thought.

When he wakes up, it's with a loud gasp, his entire body shooting upright, arms carrying his weight against the mattress, fingers clenching into painful fists. He blinks against the shadows of the room, the image of Sherlock -- on the pavement, head smashed in, blood, eyes staring, broken bones, internal bleeding, dead, dead, dead, a stark drama playing out again at the back of his mind. Sherlock would've liked the theatre of it, wouldn't he? John's breathing is harsh, heavy inhalations, exhalations that are tearing from his lungs. A sweat has broken out across his forehead, along his temples, the salt of it feeling stiff where it drips down his cheeks -- oh, wait, that's not -- that's --

Shit. Another shaky breath, then he runs his palm down over his face. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ He's slept a total of thirty minutes so far. He woke up two hours ago, thought about getting up then looked to his right and saw John lying there, fast asleep. He'd stayed. Drifted off periodically, body hyper-alert still, waiting for the sounds outside the door, the footsteps approaching through the dark. There's nobody here, obviously. He's frontally aware. But the rest of his brain is in a different mode and from what little he knows of life-threatening events and their effects, it'll be a while before everything quiets down again.

So, here he is. Sits. He's checking his feeds on the phone when John's breathing suddenly changes, becomes more erratic. Distressed? He glances sideways, following the lines of his face as his features twist, his body restless. Nightmare, then. He used to dream about the war, Sherlock knows, though they've never outright discussed it (certain things, you don't have to verbalize). Not too hard to imagine what he's dreaming about now, is it?

The man suddenly bolts upright into a seated position with a gasp, muscles trembling and sweat shining on his brow and down the bridge of his nose. And what's - oh. Oh. Tears, John's... oh. Sherlock grimaces. Looks at him for a moment as he tries to compose himself, fingers twitching lightly. His voice is a quiet rumble in the dark: ]

John?

the fourth. 1/4

[acuriousincident]

John.

2 minutes later

[acuriousincident]

Need your opinion. Pressing matter, very important.

10 minutes later

[acuriousincident]

We need jam. Raspberry.

15 minutes later

[acuriousincident]

John.

the fifth.

[docwithablog]

[ They've texted back and forth throughout the day and consequently, John has maybe been half as productive as he'd normally be, leaving 100 percent of the blood work to the nurses and only double checked a third of his files for readability before dumping them on the secretary's desk while waiting for the next text, the next, the next sign of bloody life. Bickering with the other man over the phone again has felt like an almost physical relief, the same way returning to Baker Street was the night before -- although John can still feel, of course, that it's new, relatively untested ground that they're walking on. It's been two years, after all. Two long years.

He thinks of Sherlock's fingers massaging his neck, the heat of his palm over his skin and then, he doesn't think about it anymore, because it's only a symptom of something else, something bigger, isn't it?

After getting off work, he takes the bus to Marylebone Station and drops by the grocer's, doing some shopping which is approximately as familiar an experience as snapping at Sherlock via text. Then, he walks the short, well-known way back (home) to 221B, a bag in either hand, letting himself in with the old key he still has for some reason (everything happened in a bit of a blur, back when he moved out, to be fair) and scaling the stairs, first one flight, then the other before entering the kitchen the direct route. ] Don't mind me. [ Not that Sherlock will, of course, he'd have deduced it was John by the way he bloody well pushed down the door handle or something, if he hasn't seen him from the window. However, it feels nice to say. It feels nice to indulge the routine of it, like it's something they've been doing forever, like there hasn't been any intermission at all.

He places the two bags of groceries on the kitchen table, still thankfully rid of science equipment and bloody specimens. Who knows, the fridge might even be empty, no dead people parts yet. Most definitely nothing to eat. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ He's in his chair, hands lightly steepled in front of his face and expression sharp as he runs through the facts in his mind, stacking it all nicely and systematically whilst looking for points of connection. Mycroft texted him the details earlier (apparently, in a petty bid to make him realise that even texting is annoying when a third of your fingers are cracked) and he's had an hour to reflect. Milošević, he thinks, scrolling through a mental data-sheet, painstakingly collected and maintained throughout the past several months. While he didn't get out of Serbia with the physical plans (ugh), he did manage to memorize the entire blueprint as well as all important exit points on British soil.

The sound of the front door opening alerts him to John's presence (still has the key, footsteps and locking-motion very distinctive). He doesn't move, though a bundle of tension between his shoulderblades dissipates, all at once. He can hear the grocery bags (bags, plural!) and while John had deemed it "not his problem", apparently certain habits are hard to break. He smiles very slightly. In this, too, John is as he should be. ]

Could you throw the toast out while you're at it?

[ If he has to even look at that horrible bag one more time... For a second, his train of thought is disturbed by the recollection of standing there, at the grocer's, staring at everyone and everything and wondering with a rising sense of panic how to find the way out. The jam, he'd given up on. The toast is his least favourite brand. Summed up, then, a total, utter failure. He scowls, pushes the thought aside. Back to work. ]

the sixth.

[acuriousincident]

[ They're headed home, crossing over Piccadilly Circus amidst hoards of people and Sherlock keeps his mind as focused as possible, though there's a heavy exhaustion threatening to sneak up on him and leave him powerless. They managed to get the Serbs and prevent the murder of a prominent politician, no doubt leading to several handshakes in Mycroft's favour and a veritable disaster in the mainland criminal world. Sherlock is trying to block it out, currently, the case, the details. His body aches in all the most obvious places - shoulders, thigh, fingers - and all he can think is over, it's over, followed by a sweeping sensation of lethargy. He keeps his hands buried in his pockets as he navigates the crowd, picking up on random cues despite his best intentions and trying to just. Leave it be.

Disregard.

John's following along next to him. Finishing this particular case with him has been... nice. He's thought very little about the last time he saw Milošević. He's thought very little about anything but the rush of the case, the thrill of finally tying up all the loose ends. It was good, seeing Lestrade again as well. He's managed to fight his way back up the ranks, despite Sherlock's untimely departure which left his entire department looking a lot worse for wear. No hard feelings either, quite the opposite. Sherlock can't remember the other man actually hugging him before, ever, and while he's not exactly anxious to repeat the experience, it was... well, it wasn't bad. It was uncomplicated. He glances sideways at John.

Everything, a lot less complicated than you might think. ]

[docwithablog]

[ They're a thirty minute walk from Baker Street, Piccadilly a proper myriad, buzzing and whirring, movement everywhere, at every step, every turn. He keeps an eye on Sherlock, just out the corner of it, really, watching how he navigates through the crowd with his hands thoroughly buried in his pocket of his very wrong, very unflattering coat. Apparently, Mycroft won't give him the right one before -- well, brotherly affection was always something rather odd between the two of them and John should bloody well know, he's someone's big brother as well and he fucked that up a long, long time ago.

The case has kept them going for the past 30+ hours, catching some Serbs, preventing the murder of a politician (not that the world needs their sort to, you know, survive, necessarily), uprooting the criminal milieu across Europe, the works. He's been doing his best to keep up with the other man, always and obviously three steps ahead of him in his mind, but on the physical plane, John hasn't actually done too shabby a job, let's be real. Considering his two-year hiatus and the extra pounds they've added. There's been a lot of running. A lot of running.

And Sherlock looks tired now. So tired that John is thinking about maybe just, hailing them a cab and forcing the man into it. At this time of night, it's much quicker by foot, but in a cab they'll at least be sitting down all the way. Sherlock glances sideways at him, as if he knows what he's thinking. Oh, rest assured. He might. ]

Could catch a cab. [ A beat. He sidesteps two girls walking by hand in hand. Pulling his coat closer around himself, he adds: ] Your back would thank you.

the eighth.

[acuriousincident]

[ It's raining.

The flat is cold and damp, wind coming in through cracks in the window frame. He doesn't feel any of it, not the coldness, not the wetness, because John's so incredibly hot against him, all warm, naked skin. His mouth is a furnace as they kiss and Sherlock's holding onto him with enough strength to leave marks on his arms and shoulders (there'll be nothing there in the aftermath, he knows, just as he knows he's making this up, it's nothing, it's nothing). Outside the window, a flash of lightning springs across the sky, a clap of thunder following immediately after. It's right above us he thinks, just as John pushes his hard cock between his thighs, leaving a smear of wetness in its wake.

He gasps. Writhes beneath the other man, spreading his legs and holding on. He can't possibly go away now, that would be incredibly, unforgivably rude, but all the same, Sherlock clings to him and throws his head back. John's a rude person, after all. If he wants to leave, he'll leave. And knowing what's coming, he couldn't bear it now, not when he's given himself over.

Just this once, he thinks. John reaches down and fondles his cock, long, heavy strokes and he moans out his name because he might as well, there's no one around to hear (no one, absolutely no one). The rain seems to grow heavier. He pulls the other man closer and waits for him to just do it, do it, it's not like they'll have another go, it won't matter to anyone because even Sherlock is gone these days, there's much too little left to leave a lasting impact.

Besides, judging by the rain outside, they'll be drowning by the end of it. ]

[docwithablog]

[ It's the shuffling that wakes him up. The restlessness. Sherlock's usually a pretty courteous bed partner in terms of moving about, John's learned at this point -- which is ironic, considering how the man's the least courteous person you could imagine in any other state of consciousness. As it is, it's the way he's tossing and turning that makes John blink against the utter darkness of the bedroom, noticing only after one-two-three seconds how Sherlock's duvet has slipped down his torso, heaping across his lap and thighs. Bad dream? He pushes himself up on one elbow, frowning.

Then, the man -- throws his head back, his back arching slightly in the process and he's gasping and -- oh, John thinks. Oh. Good dream.

He makes a facial expression that it's very good the other man can't see, the shadows eating it up, before rolling onto his other side, turning his back on Sherlock's writhing, whimpering self with that very odd uncertainty of -- not really knowing what to do. With how little Sherlock sleeps these days, he's loathe to wake him, to be honest, but at the same time -- it's really just very awkward lying here, listening to him getting himself off. Very awkward, very -- yes. John shifts a bit. Shifts some more.

John, Sherlock proceeds to -- moan.

His entire body goes into freeze. After which, it does something else entirely and both his eyebrows go up, as if to mirror -- it. Did Sherlock just -- moan -- his name? Did he really -- did he -- did -- fuck. He rolls over again, stares at the long-limbed shape of the other man intently. Jesus Christ, Sherlock Holmes. For God's sake. Sherlock writhes some more, not helping matters whatsoever. So, John makes a decision. ]

Sherlock?

the ninth.

[docwithablog]

Okay, I've got, what, 27 missed calls from you. What the hell's happened?

1/2

[acuriousincident]

Obvious. You've been ignoring me.

[acuriousincident]

The rather more salient question being - why?

the eleventh.

[acuriousincident]

[ With the murder of Amanda Pittsford solved to everybody's satisfaction - everybody, meaning the grieving brother, the Met and the British government - Sherlock's content to sit back in the cab and simply watch London flash by outside the windows. His mind is going two hundred miles a minute, still, running through the facts of the case and comparing them, categorising, deleting all irrelevant information. It's a process he's chosen to call clean-up, something he began doing after Peru, in particular. It's not strictly necessary any longer but after two years, it's a habit and his mind simply likes doing it, for reasons he's chosen not to examine too closely.

He's very conscious of John in the seat next to him, the rustling of his clothes, the proximity of his body. John, who did very well today, even if he didn't realise it and not just by leaning to speak Pigeon. He smiles to himself very briefly, one foot tapping lightly against the floor of the cab. God, he likes finishing cases. Wrapping them up. Even if he didn't share the big fish with Lestrade this time around, there's something deeply satisfying about knowing that Ian Pittsford won't be collecting any more women in his little digital scrapbook.

He glances sideways at John. Wondering, perhaps a bit hopefully, whether John's figured it out. That the grand reveal was lacking a few key elements, including any and all mentions of a certain Sibyl. ]

[docwithablog]

[ They're on their way back from the Met, sitting next to each other on the backseat of a classic London cab, because that's their classic method of getting from A to B, isn't it? London flashing by on the other side of the window, neon colours in the descending dusk, traffic lights and road signs and billboards on top of buildings, all of it. Sherlock, too. Home. John glances at the other man out the corner of his eye, noticing how he still seems fidgety, although he's just delivered a very grand grand reveal that's put Lestrade's people to work for a good couple months, at the least. Normally, he'll be spinning like a bloody spinning top for some twenty minutes after such a finish and then, some time later, keel over, completely. Doesn't seem to be happening this time around and John frowns, looks outside, pursing his lips slightly.

There's a small stretch of backseat between them, but not enough to quench the sensation of the other man's body heat across the small distance, the kind of noticeable warmth that indicates elevated heart rhythm and venous systems doing overtime, but then again -- Sherlock does get off on these cases, gets off on solving his puzzles and his riddles and -- yeah. John turns his head a little, looking sideways at the other man. His own skin is tingling slightly, could (objectively) be from spending 5+ hours at Finsbury Park earlier in a lovely drizzle, too, but more likely he's responding to the obvious excitement that Sherlock's exhibiting, because -- Why? Case is done, it's over, they should be discussing dinner, really.

There was no mention of Sybil in today's grand reveal. Either it was a dead end, didn't mean anything, didn't lead anywhere or something's not been accounted for which, obviously, if you know Sherlock Holmes, could very well be the case. Come on. John clears his throat. ] Got to admit, I'm kind of disappointed that I learned Pigeon for nothing. [ A pause. Turning his head fully, he catches Sherlock's gaze through the semi-darkness of the cab's backseat. Except, I didn't, did I, it asks. ]

the thirteenth.

[docwithablog]

[ The discrepancy is almost tangible, now that Sherlock's had his hair cut, bringing him appearance-wise back to what he looked like prior to his great mission out in the big, damn world. If you don't take his scarred back into account, of course, although John assumes Sherlock isn't likely to let anyone come close enough to have a look at... his back -- or all the things that aren't immediately noticeable, like his apparent fear of letting anyone near with sharp objects, something that basically led him to let his hair grow Tarzan-style for a good couple of months. Because he was afraid of -- yeah. Yeah.

Two days later, the man's been hanging around the flat mostly, no interesting cases -- well, not interesting enough must be the verdict, there have certainly been a few potential clients by, though they were quickly shown the door, because -- does Sherlock even need an excuse to be rude to people at this point? Dull, boring, they're really just convenient excuses while he waits for the next big fish.

Standing with his back to the door, John's busy drying off his hair, having just stepped out of the shower where he's spend a generous amount of time thinking about what will be the easiest way to engage Sherlock in anything not case-related. His blues have become more a sort of slump and aren't, obviously, always related to cases anymore either. They're just there, like dead periods.

You'd think he'd had enough of those. That they both had. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ He's on his back, on the sofa, staring at nothing. So many stupid, helpless people in London, wanting his assistance for stupid little problems that he couldn't possibly solve without dying of boredom. He sighs. Scowls. Notes, distantly, that the water has stopped running in the bathroom.

The sense of sheer, unadulterated monotony is making his head hurt. His thoughts are racing ahead of him, trying to latch onto something that'll keep him grounded just a bit, just enough. He thinks about coke. Then, inevitably, he thinks about Bolivia and pushes the rest away, firmly. God, but there's nothing, though logically he knows - eventually, there'll be another case. Someone will be murdered in a slightly interesting fashion or Mycroft will call for him to crack a code or --

He gets to his feet, gaze suddenly alert. Looking around the sitting room quickly, he spins on his heel and runs for the bathroom, throwing the door open. ]

John, have you seen --

[ ... my book on cryptography? he wanted to say, but the sentence dies in his throat. He stands stock still in the doorway, staring openly at John's naked backside, his firm buttocks and the line of his back. The exit wound on the back of his shoulder. John's crouching slightly forward, thighs parted enough that Sherlock can glimpse his balls amidst his sparse, blond pubic hair. His brain short-circuits. So naturally, he just stands there, every central function offline, perhaps except for one. A very particular one, at that. ]

the fourteenth.

[docwithablog]

Is this a case of gay panic or is it just a case, because the latter will get you in far less trouble than the former, Sherlock.

[acuriousincident]

Case. Two missing parrots and a chopped-off thumb, distal phalange only.

the fifteenth.

[acuriousincident]

[ 221B is quiet tonight, the aftershocks of the... progression in their relation(ship) lingering in the atmosphere, the smell of sex seemingly clinging to them. Sherlock's on his back on the sofa, legs stretched out and feet propped up on the armrest. He's cataloging old cases in his mind, gaze tracking slowly back and forth (The Hyde Park murderer, part deux, exsanguinating his victims in the Joy of Life fountain, nice touch of sarcasm there -- the York Bridge murderer, cutting the throat of his victim and bleeding him dry in the waters underneath -- the intricacies of the London water ways had intrigued him, back then, and the cases, along with a couple of others, had been useful data for his mental map of the London water supply). After climaxing twice over the span of half a day, his body is sated enough to rest, even if his mind's gearing up for another restless night.

John's in his chair, pretending to read a book. Whether he's getting anywhere with that is questionable, though Sherlock can see his eyes tracking from left to right. He's trying to keep tabs on the frequency of his page-turning, though he keeps getting distracted by his own thoughts. Ah well. He's got ample John!data already, doesn't he? A decent amount, even.

His phone suddenly vibrates. Sherlock wrestles it out of his pocket and takes a look. Brow furrowing as he reads, he can feel his body going from relatively relaxed to action in a matter of seconds, and he gets to his feet quickly, shooting off a text on his way to the bedroom. Acceptable - SH it says, and nothing more. Between him and Mycroft, excessive detail is rarely necessary. ]

[docwithablog]

[ He's reading a mystery novel, a habit he got back into after Sherlock died, because life just wasn't all that exciting anymore, not in comparison. Now, however, with them having swung full-force back into casework and apparently having sex twice over the span of half a day, too, mystery novels seem both dumb and dull, as Sherlock would so eloquently put it. John leafs through the first half of a book -- to make matters worse, it's one he's read a couple of times before, but doesn't really catch on to any full sentences. Stray words, sure, something, something, red-haired girl, mutilation, the Met, murder division... He thinks about the feel of Sherlock's cock against his palm, his fingers curled around the girth of it, jerking him off, roughly, quickly, the man having barely got out of his coat, just as John had asked. John had been too busy licking his way up his neck, hadn't he, to care. He'd been too busy cupping his face, following the jut of cheekbone with his thumb while kissing him.

The investigator of the story is having a very forced, very medically incorrect conversation with the coroner when Sherlock basically jumps to his feet and marches off towards his bedroom, shooting off a text, John letting the book drop -- finally, thank God, and leaning back in his chair enough to try and follow the man with his gaze. Lost cause, of course, the hallway eats him up, he's gone, but it's something to do that isn't just staying silent spectator to some fictional doctor abusing the word autopsy.

Licking his lips, he closes the book after another long second and gets to his feet, following Sherlock into his bedroom, coming to a halt in the doorway. ]

This new case better not involve accidentally dropped thumbs.

the sixteenth.

[docwithablog]

[ Prague isn't the worst place you could possibly go, late-October. The sky's been bluer than -- well, something very blue, tufts of clouds wafting by over his head while he's busied himself playing tourist, intersected by a few choice courier jobs texted to him by Sherlock. Picking up a parcel from someone, dropping it off in some unmarked mailbox, delivering a message, little spikes of adrenaline, excitement, in the lull of drinking lots of fine, quality beer and eating goulash for lunch, followed by some cheap bites of roasted pork on spit while wandering through the streets today.

He's not currently eating. Or drinking. Or being useful, no, he isn't doing that either, because he hasn't actually heard from Sherlock since his last assignment the previous night and it's beginning to worry him a little, although he knows what to expect from him, doesn't he? It's been more than 30 hours since they arrived, it's almost noon now, second day. For all John can calculate, he will need to keep himself entertained for another couple of hours, if not the entire day...

So, here he is.

Mind you, Charles Bridge is a tourist trap, to say the least and really, a terrible place unless you want to get asked twice every two minutes whether you'd like to have your portrait painted (very distinctive face, sir, 20 Euros) or, what does he know, get a very questionable type to hold your phone for you and take a picture of you in front of the Crucifix. Besides, the masses are aggressive as hell and he has to dodge people left and right not to get shouldered and consequently, murder someone. Managing to break free of the worst crowds, he stops next to one of the apparently and thankfully less popular statues, leaning against the balustrade and watching the river, lips pursed.

Oh, you better wrap this one up and quickly, you utter cock. He hates being parked like this. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ He hasn't slept since arriving in Prague, going straight from Václav Havel Airport to Rakovnik. He's been aware of John's doings for the entirety of the trip, Mycroft's surveillance team reporting back to him at regular intervals to keep him updated. Consequently, his brain has been running on two, parallel tracks simultaneously; one, wholly related to the case at hand, at finding the missing artifact before Taisumov's agents - and two, John. Playing tourist in Prague and running errands, because when you have a man on the ground, you might as well make use of him.

All the while, he's tried not to think too much about then, focusing on the task, on solving the problem as fast as possible. Now, however, seated on Charles Bridge with a battered-looking sketchbook and a piece of charcoal between his fingers, watching John pass him by, so endearingly oblivious, he can't help but wonder whether it would have been like this, all the time. This warm, almost terrifying feeling of excitement, knowing that once he's finished, he'll go back to John. He'd had it, in the beginning, once he'd left London behind and embarked on what he thought would have been a reasonably short adventure.

An optimism eventually eroded by time.

He gets to his feet, mimicking a limb and a bad back, and makes his way over to John by the balustrade. He's dressed like an old man, his manner of dress mostly inconspicuous, the fake nose and chin still sticking to his face. The wig is long, grey and a bit unkempt. He huffs out his breaths noisily as he moves up next to the other man and waves his sketchbook at him. ]

Sir, sir - your face deserves to be perpetuated!

[ He speaks in a high voice, slightly scratchy and with a heavy, Czech accent. ]

the seventeenth.

[acuriousincident]

[ The Vepřová Pečeně didn't disappoint and they took their sweet time, meandering through inner Prague and enjoying the taste of spit-roasted pork and potato dumplings. He's found a way to get John up to date on the case of the missing puzzle without actively putting him in danger by over-loading him with details; while he's managed to get around Taisumov, he's not taking any chances. They may have ruined a grand part of the Baron's criminal empire but certain networks are long-lived. Just because Moriarty's gone, doesn't mean the people who made use of his services aren't still as power-hungry as ever.

Once back at the small but luxurious hotel (courtesy of Mycroft's last-minute planning, once he'd realised that John was joining them - his brother is nothing if not adaptable), he's currently taking advantage of the massive bathroom - featuring both a large, claw-foot tub and a modern shower stall with five (why?) different shower-settings. He's in dire need of a shower, really, after 41 hours of more or less constant action. In the adjacent bedroom, he can hear John rustling about. He breathes out slowly, breathes in. Drops his get-up item by item, putting them in a heap in the corner of the room to be disposed of before they leave the country.

Off with the fake chin, off with the nose, the wig - and he looks at himself, very briefly, in the huge mirror lining the wall. He's still paler than he ought to be, his cheekbones pronounced along with most other bones in his upper body. He purposefully doesn't look himself over any further than that, heading straight for the shower stall and turning on the ordinary rain setting. The water takes less than five seconds to warm up and he sighs, loudly, as he stands underneath the spray. ]

[docwithablog]

[ You'd expect Mycroft to choose something grand and he has, oh, John has frolicked in the small, but very luxurious, very exclusive hotel when he hasn't been out on the streets, yes, very nice, very -- rich people aesthetics, most of it. Gilded cutlery at the restaurant downstairs, porcelain plates with gold lining, all of it polished within an inch of its bloody life. You'd get your boiled eggs served in little, hand-embroidered handkerchiefs, so you won't burn your fingers, that type of thing. Shit.

For the time being, he's busy loading what little he's unpacked back into his rucksack, having kicked off his shoes and padding around the room on sock-clad feet, feeling just slightly overheated in the surprisingly warm autumn afternoon, sun pouring in through the wide windows. He draws the curtains, one after the other as he moves by, cutting off the view of inner Prague. Soon, the suite is all shadows and thin stripes of light across the carpets. John toes out of his socks, loosens his collar -- then, he glances over towards the bathroom where Sherlock's turned on the water and is -- obviously enjoying a much-deserved shower, much-needed, much-naked and John just stares at the closed door for a few long seconds, eyebrows rising slowly, before he inclines his head, making an appreciative humming sound while crossing the room.

Okay, so. Fine, all right.

The shirt goes first, landing next to the kingsize bed. Next are his trousers, pants, littering a trail from the suite into the bathroom as he pushes the door open and steps inside. It's rich people proportions, the bathroom, with room for both a tub (on silly as fuck claws) and a shower, complete with a multiple-setting shower head, too. The stall door's see-through glass allows him a glimpse of Sherlock's outline, legs and shoulders and arms and a head -- yeah, the man's all head, after all, John licking his lips once as he comes to a halt just outside, resting his hand against the knob, pulling it open slowly, a veritable cloud of watery, warm mist hitting him in the face. ]

There's room for one more, if you scoot over, right?