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[ 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)

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