docwithablog

[ 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. ]

[ 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.

[ He gets his duffle bag from the bottom of his closet, dropping it on the floor before filling it, his approach methodological and quick. It's habit, little more - knowing what goes where, what'll be needed, what won't. Mycroft told him the mission would be slated for three days, no doubt expecting him to finish in two. He'll do better than that. Rakovnik, it'll be easy. He'll have that puzzle re-assembled before Taisumov knows what hit him.

He doesn't turn towards John as the other man pauses in the doorway, straightening up and heading for the bathroom through the sliding doors. ]

No thumbs nor parrots. [ He snatches his toothbrush along with a few other essentials, throws them in a small, black toilet bag and heads back to the bedroom. ] It'll be a few days, at most.

Okay, good. And where are you going?

[ Sherlock packs his things methodically. John remembers the same kind of procedure, back when he was still being deployed, packing in the matter of minutes, knowing where everything went and why and what order and -- yes, it's obvious that Sherlock's got a new mission, not just some random case and it's obvious that it isn't somewhere John would be able to just drop by, not London, not Greater London, maybe not even All Mighty England, right?

For some, not quite inexplicable reason, the thought fills him with dread. Something that's far beyond sentiment, it's the result of two years of -- whatever those two years were, right, empty and cold and alone. Maybe it's the sex talking, maybe he's become invested now, too invested, but having lived without Sherlock, both before and after having met him, John will venture the guess that you can't, not really, get too invested at all.

Not if you consider the alternative. ]

[ Where are you going? For a moment, past mixes with the present and he's back in some dingy hotel, nowhere near the Western hemisphere, and John's asking him something very similar, except the question would always be posed in a slightly different manner: "Going again?" Because naturally, that particular John always saw the inevitability of it. Accepted it, even, with a rhetorical question.

This John has been left behind too completely.

Sherlock pauses. Straightens up from zipping his bag and stares at the other man, watching the tension lines in his face, shoulders, back. The... fear? Oh God, but John isn't afraid of anything. Swallowing heavily, expression mostly blank, Sherlock keeps his voice level, trying not to see the past two years playing across John's features. It's an uphill battle for the world's most observant man, isn't it. Poetic justice. ]

Czech Republic. A small town on the outskirts of Prague.

[ He doesn't even consider lying about it, though objectively speaking, it would have been the better option. He remembers John's hand against the side of his face, the heat of his breath against his skin. Yes. This is what sentiment does to you, for better or for worse. ]

Edited 2019-10-05 13:43 (UTC)

[ Czech Republic. Okay, well, basic geography could perhaps draw a very straight line from Prague to Belgrade, although -- to be fair, it should take the man at least nine hours by car to get from one point to the other. However, the question remains, how long would it take the people who knew Sherlock in Serbia to get from here to there, really? Frowning, he meets the other man's gaze a long moment, wordlessly, just thinking it over. If he's playing bloody MI6 agent again, he's not doing it alone, John doesn't care how unaffected Mycroft is by the entire idea, he isn't, he just isn't, Christ.

So, he clears his throat, straightening up a bit, nodding once. ]

I'm coming with you. Don't -- [ He turns around, both because if you have to keep up with Sherlock Holmes, you better be ready to run, but also because there's something -- his eyes are -- yeah, and he has a bag to pack and he needs to go to his own room that will undoubtedly still be reeking of sex, because it's, what, an hour since they went at it there. Over one shoulder, he continues: ] -- even think about going off on your own to get your fucking fix, Sherlock.

[ He's resigning himself to a fight of some sort - their first, really as a sexual couple - when John simply turns around, proclaiming that he's coming with. For a few seconds, Sherlock's frozen in place, staring at John's turned back, his mind drawing blanks. He - but he can't -- ]

John, I -

[ Pause. Swallow. How many times hadn't he wished for John to be with him on his travels, to be the catalyst that would clear his thoughts and make everything happen twice as fast? How many times? And then, he'd been thankful as well, particularly once he found himself shackled to the walls in Serbia, that it happened to him and not to John, that he didn't have to worry about his safety on top of trying to stay alive.

( somewhere, in a very tiny corner of his mind, he'd been regretful too, knowing that John weren't coming for him )

Picking up his bag, he finally just follows John for a few steps, calling out to him as he heads for the stairs: ]

The car's waiting outside.

[ He'll have to find a way to keep John out of the loop and consequently, off the case. But so long as the man stays in Prague, plays tourist, he won't be in any real danger. Mycroft will make sure of it. Brow furrowed for another moment, he finally turns away and heads for the hallway. ]

[ Sherlock tells him that a car's waiting outside and of course, there's a bloody car waiting outside -- what did you expect? If Mycroft could land a bloody private jet on Baker Street, he'd do that, but even the British government has its limitations, apparently.

Shaking his head and blinking angrily a couple of times, the burning dying away slowly and without leaving too-obvious, embarrassing trails behind, John finds his military rucksack from the bottom of his closet, packing it quickly with the essentials for -- how long? Shit, doesn't matter, he can hit a laundromat, if necessary. His old washbag is still at the ready, packed with a toothbrush and the very, very basics. Soap. Shampoo. Shaving kit. All disposable, he can buy new stuff in Prague, presumably.

Shrugging out of his shirt with one hand, he drops passport, wallet and phone into the bag, before pulling a fresh t-shirt over his head, just for maximum comfort, if there'll be waiting time, stopovers, who even knows, not like Sherlock's telling him much as it is. He makes a face, but that's about as much time as he's willing to waste. He hurries down the stairs.

Good, guessing went pretty well earlier in the day, yes? He'll just put in a few educated ones as they go along. ]

psl.

the fifteenth.

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