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. ]

[ 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. ]

Edited 2019-09-22 05:54 (UTC)

[ Sherlock doesn't move from his chair, because apparently he's returned in kind, hasn't he? Along with his bad habit of only moving a finger when it comes to his cases, his puzzles, his riddles, his rush. John sighs, starting to unpack, the toast on top of the stash and as he opens the cupboard, he finds a single bag of toast already there -- whole wheat, to be more specific. For God's sake, Sherlock... ]

Did you buy yourself whole wheat toast? But you hate whole wheat toast. [ As such, he tosses the package out, even if it's full by a slice, maybe, and replaces it with his own newly-purchased white toast. He's systematic about the rest of it. Cans and dry items first, then everything that needs to go in the fridge secondly (and thankfully, no bloody heads to squander the space). Bags folded and stacked away under the sink, lastly. Eventually, the table has been cleared and everything put in place, John looking around the kitchen with a sense of -- Christ, did he just get the man's shopping? He doesn't even live here anymore!

Which might, when you think about it a little more, be the actual problem here.

He breathes out slowly, a long exhalation and then walks over to the doorway, stopping squarely in the middle of it and crossing his arms over his chest while watching Sherlock. Sherlock thinking, Sherlock working and Sherlock wanted his help which is exhilarating and frightening all at once, because the last case they worked was Moriarty's and look where that got them, yes. ]

Are you going to let me in on it this time?

[ He doesn't answer John's initial question, mostly because obviously and also, he doesn't particularly want to delve into the details. Instead, he just hums (meaning yes, no, possibly and who cares? all at once) and leans back slightly in his chair. God, he's missed it. The chair, the flat, John, asking stupid questions... He blinks, realising that if he doesn't immediately cease thinking about this, he might end up doing something really embarrassing and sentimental; there's a case to finish, the rest of it can wait.

John packs everything away and walks over to the doorway, watching Sherlock with his arms crossed. An altogether familiar pose. Sherlock raises his eyes to him after another moment, forcing himself not to hyper-focus on the man's choice of words (this time, meaning, not last time and they both know what that implies - even if Sherlock hasn't managed to burn this bridge entirely, he's well aware of how he's left it a rattling mess, fragile-looking, potentially unsafe for crossing). Swallowing, he nods. ]

Did you read about the cargo ship that disappeared a few miles off the coast of Senegal? The Gloria Scott?

The -- Gloria Scott?

[ He gives it a thought, runs through immediate headlines from the past couple of weeks. Nothing. Past couple of months, then? John still comes up with nothing, so he frowns and thinks back half a year, then another half. Oh. About a year ago, maybe a little more than a year, actually, there'd been headlines about a cargo ship that had just -- vanished and how did that even happen? Someone's fairy godmother spiriting it away? Wait, no... Moriarty? Blinking, he lets his arms drop, meets Sherlock's eyes.

It occurs to him, like an inkling more than an idea, the sheer magnitude of the task Sherlock's been undertaking while he was away. He's been practically working a case non-stop for two years and with how bloody crazy just the week-long ones used to make him, John can't imagine what he did to stay sane through all that. His mind palace, sure, but even palaces fall. Their walls can crumble.

With a slight cock of his head, he comments, carefully: ]

That's a while back, isn't it? It's been, what, a year?

[ A nod. He sits up straighter in his chair, looking intently at John. ]

Precisely one year and 24 days ago, the Gloria Scott suffered a catastrophic incident at sea. The cargo ship was, officially, shipping fruit and vegetables, a clean and relatively harmless commercial endavour. Unofficially, it was used as a smuggling vehicle, transporting weapons and armoury into Europe. The cause of the accident is still being investigated.

[ He shifts, rolling his shoulders, working out a slight kink. Feeling restless, he gets to his feet and walks to the mantel, fingering the items on it without truly seeing them. There's something grounding about it, about feeling the familiar shapes between his fingertips. ]

The smuggling operation is masterminded from France, primarily, by a man called Maupertuis. In the underworld, however, he's known primarily as the Baron. His right hand, Jakov Milošević, controls most of their practical business from a small town on the border between Serbia and Montenegro - Jabuka. Thanks to Jim Moriarty's expert assistance, they have political ties - ensured by blackmail, of course - all the way to the very top of the European Union.

Edited 2019-09-22 11:41 (UTC)

[ John's first, rather comically inappropriate thought is that this is the reason a growing percentage of the British want out of the EU. A feeble constellation of blackmail and bloody suits, all of it and -- then -- he stops himself, focusing on the ship, the catastrophic incident, how Sherlock knows the real cargo, how Sherlock knows everything and --

Ah... Yeah, probably they'd have heard something if anyone had figured out how a cargo ship the size of a small village had suffered violent shipwreck and disappeared from the surface of the Atlantic Ocean. Except, of course, if the only man who knew the truth was officially dead and, furthermore, very, very good at keeping his secrets. In that case they could investigate away, nothing would come of it. John looks at Sherlock for a long time, wordlessly, a slight wrinkle between his brows as he thinks it over. How does he know -- Oh. Oh.

Both his eyebrows go up in obvious disbelief. ]

Did you happen to sink the Gloria Scott, Sherlock?

[ John falls silent for a moment - thinking, of course, and Sherlock lets him, gaze slipping over the wallpaper, the taxidermied bat. The shelves. And then -

Ah.

Looking over at the other man, he feels his lips curve into a sharp smile. He doesn't nod, doesn't confirm - obviously, he doesn't have to. John's quick like that. ]

Alain Muller, a low-level flunky with ties to Maupertuis' greatest rival, sank the Gloria Scott. He then proceeded to infiltrate the smuggling ring under a different alias whilst Milošević concocted a frantic search throughout Europe, trying to sort out what had happened. Eventually, of course, the truth had to come out - but not before they'd managed to leave themselves well and truly compromised. [ He turns away fully from the mantel, crossing over to the window. Looks down at the streets, gaze narrowing slightly. ] As such, I'm waiting for him to make a move that might very well leave the criminal underworld shaken to the core.

[ He curls his hands into fists for a moment, gaze growing slightly distant. One last stretch - and he can close this case completely, put Milošević behind bars and leave his successor to run the entire organisation into the ground. Moriarty's influences will be scattered to the winds, consequently. The network, finally dismantled. ]

[ Sherlock's busying himself by the mantel, looking around, gaze sharp and focused and then -- okay, good, he's smiling, no need to confirm further. John stares at him for a long moment, just tries to take all of him in, his posture, his too-long hair, his stupid, run-on speeches, for God's sake. The man's been away, deployed, on the bloody run for two years and he manages to come home exactly as amazing as he was when he left, if not more, if not much, much more, because he's fought the war and they'll make sure, now, that the war doesn't win. Straightening up, John follows Sherlock with his eyes as he crosses over to the window, purses his lips slightly. ]

You're waiting for them to reciprocate. Here? In London? [ Soon, presumably, if Sherlock's on the case. John makes a noise, halfway exasperated, halfway inquiring, and walks over to the other man, stopping by the window and glancing up at the sky, then down at the streets below, then across the small distance between them at Sherlock himself. He licks his lips. ] Where?

[ John, as always, follows him in his own time, leaving the doorframe and coming to a stop next to him by the window. Proximity, his mind supplies - gratefully, greedily, hungrily. He pushes the thought aside but not before indulging in the sensation a little. The notion of being two, rather than one. He wouldn't usually miss it and before meeting John Watson, the idea alone of longing for companionship would have seemed ludicrous. Things change, apparently, when you meet certain people. When they meet you, in turn. ]

The Savoy Theatre. [ His voice is low, words unhurried. ] I know who they plan to murder, which pattern they'll follow for escape - but the means, John. The means. [ He pulls out his phone. Opens a browser link and turns the screen to John for perusal. ] This might very well be relevant to our interests.

[ It's news of a break-in at a barber's shop not too far from Westminster, seemingly low-profile and unprofitable. The obvious crime, however, masks something else, something very interesting indeed, pertaining to the person living upstairs, above the shop. Sherlock turns the phone away after another couple of seconds, puts it back in his pocket and turns away. He heads for the door and grabs a long, billowy coat on the way from where it's been carelessly slung over the sofa. It's not the right coat, unfortunately. That one he lost in his travels, sadly, and a copy has yet to be procured. ]

[ The Savoy Theatre. Good. Sherlock's up to date with the where and the what, but not the how and the how's very important, if someone's in line of fire, John would say. He's about to nod his head and ask, but Sherlock proceeds to shove his phone in his face, a small headline about a break-in at a barbershop and this might very well be relevant to our interests, the other man says before marching through the flat and grabbing a coat (not the coat, John hasn't actually seen even a shred of it, since his return)... But -- What's he grasping from the barbershop break-in? Come on, Sherlock, don't leave him hanging like that, Christ. With a groan, he follows a couple of steps behind.

Here they go again.

He honestly can't help it. The rush of adrenaline and excitement spreading underneath his skin, through his system, through his veins, making his heart pump twice as fast as it's done at any given time since Sherlock -- well, died, disappeared, went away, call it whatever you'd like, it's the same bloody thing. The consequences don't change according to vocabulary. John halfway bounces down the staircase, grabbing his own coat as they pass it on the way, shrugging it on.

Maybe Sherlock isn't the only one who's returned from the dead. Maybe, as always, he's dragged John with him. Come along, John, come along, yes? ]

Edited 2019-09-22 13:37 (UTC)

psl.

the fifth.

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