docwithablog

[ 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. ]

Edited 2019-10-05 15:52 (UTC)

[ John is allowed exactly two minutes in the blissful peace of his own company, before one of the street artists -- an old man and how do you turn down someone's bloody grandfather, seriously, limps up to him, back obviously shot and his English marred by a heavy accent that makes his comment indistinguishable aside, perhaps, for a very impressive perpetuated and that must be a difficult word for a man whose English skills undoubtedly narrow down to spare a dime, sir. For God's sake. If he starts to go on about John's nose like the last guy did, he's about had it.

Even so, he does turn towards the man slowly, both eyebrows raised and hands coming up to make an altogether affected, empty-handed gesture out to the sides, grand movements, sweeping, who knows, the man might also be of poor eye-sight -- do you even need to be able to see to draw the kind of caricatures they specialize in down this line? Christ. ]

Out of cash. [ He lies, because he's actually saved enough Euros to buy him roasted pig on spit enough to last him a lifetime. Well, that -- and in case Sherlock should decide to drop by. He doesn't imagine the man has actually spared himself time to do something as practical as keeping himself fed. ] Perpetuity will have to wait, sorry.

[ And with that, he starts pushing past the man -- somewhat in spite of himself being rather careful about not toppling him over in his haste, because the old idiot might break his hip and for all John knows, he's the only qualified doctor around. You bet, before he knows it, it'll be his damn problem, too. ]

[ John barely looks at him before throwing his hands out to the sides - no money, sorry, universal nonverbal language there - and pushing past him, emphasising things with a lie that probably isn't even meant to be slightly convincing. From this close, Sherlock can see the way his wallet bulges in his pocket. Brow furrowing in mock-confusion, he lets himself be pushed aside, stumbling slightly, then overbalancing very purposefully in John's general direction. He's long enough to make it - within seconds, he's clinging to John's jacket, one foot bent weirdly to the side, back bowed and forehead pushed against the other man's elbow awkwardly. His sketchbook drops to the ground along with his charcoal. ]

Oh - oh, I'm sorry, so sorry, please --

[ Hands lightning fast, he fishes John's wallet out of his pocket as he tries to steady himself, letting go of him and staggering backwards. An elderly couple passes by, giving them a wide berth while the woman mutters something like "Drunkard, how disgraceful!" in Czech. He flails about a bit more, keeping his head down and mumbling frantically. The wallet, he's stuffed inside his own coat. ]

-- please, I didn't mean to disturb you, sir, have a nice day.

[ The man overbalances, has probably had a drink too many, judging from his complete lack of motor control, but under any circumstances he's now clinging to John's jacket, looking bent and possibly broken in places and John frowns, glancing around desperately, not that anyone's the busier to help him for it, right? Shit. Awkwardly, he reaches up to steady the old man by the small of his back, but almost before his palm has made contact with the tattered fabric of his coat, the man's pulling away again, apologising profusely and wishing him a nice day, because he weren't, what, having one of those before he ran into him?

Utterly thrown, John steps aside with a grimace more than a smile, even of the forced variety, rejoining the masses on the bridge once more and heading for the nearest end of it, leading down to the picturesque old city centre where he's fully intending on grabbing a bite to eat, because apparently Sherlock isn't going to show his stupid face anytime soon, is he -- and it's lunchtime again... John can't rightly be expected to stand this aimless trailing around after absolutely nothing but smoke signals unless he's working on fully charged batteries, come on.

He reaches for his wallet in his back pocket. Clap, clap, it's -- not there. He stops dead, turning around slowly, eyes scanning the bridge methodically, closing in on the statue where he was standing just a few moments ago. Not like he's expecting the man to still be there, of course, because John Watson is apparently many things, but naive isn't one of them. ]

Edited 2019-10-05 19:05 (UTC)

[ John walks off, looking quite inconvenienced. He really has appalling bedside-manners for a doctor, it's adorable. Sherlock watches him through narrowed eyes, hurrying along amongst the crowd without actively trailing in his wake. Gaze sharpening for a second, he finally places himself a John's three o'clock, knowing full well that he'll be turning around shortly, once he's realised what's missing.

With a rush of adrenalin, incomparable to just about any other high, case-related or not, he straightens up and crosses over to the other man, coming at him from the side. He pauses a few feet away, pulls out the wallet and holds it up in front of himself before saying, loudly and clearly, accent eradicated: ]

Can I get you anything, Doctor?

[ He's smiling widely. It's one thing, closing up a case and closing it good. It's quite another, getting to surprise John in this manner, when his return had been so comparatively abysmal. It feels like home, in a way. Like they're slowly but surely circulating back to what they're supposed to be, with all that's gone before. ]

Edited 2019-10-05 19:09 (UTC)

[ The voice gives him away first. Nothing gets more unmistakable than Sherlock's deep as hell vocals.

John turns his head and just -- stares, really, at the old man slash apparently Sherlock all along, because although the chin is all wrong and the nose is fake as fuck, his smile is undeniably -- well, him, it's very much him and -- he's holding John's wallet, the stupid sod, the utter cock and the warm expression of fondness that had otherwise found its way onto his features is quickly replaced by two highly raised eyebrows, as John crosses his arms over his chest.

Sherlock has not only managed to make him look stupider than brick, but also pickpocketed him for his wallet with all his ID, his cards and his cash, none of which are things you'd like Sherlock Holmes to have on you, right? Shaking his head, he walks over to the other man, suddenly beanpole height again and giving a certain air of -- well, charm to the wig and the costume which would otherwise make a bum happy. ]

The date's off if you start buying me treats for my own money.

[ The transformation from angry disapproval over surprise and then - recognition, warmth, and back to disapproval - God, it's glorious. Sherlock's smile slides into something more neutral only gradually as John walks up to him and looks up. At his comment, he shrugs and holds out the wallet for him. ]

I have nothing else. Well, except for this. [ He rummages through one, deep pocket and comes up with a crumbled-up charcoal drawing, depicting what could be either a three-legged dog, a boat or a romantic sunrise. Hard to tell, really. Lots of lines. He unfolds it single-handily. ] Don't think this will get me very far in the trading business.

[ Details related to the case have lost most of their significance, relegated to the backseat while he takes in John, here, in Prague, waiting for him like he's been waiting for years. There's something very satisfying about him doing so willingly, however, something that makes his heart flutter. God, and he thought he didn't even have a heart. The lies you come to believe, to embrace your own loneliness. He pushes the thought aside, irrelevant now, and unwanted. If he didn't already know, the past two years have taught him very thoroughly - that while being alone is less complicated, it certainly doesn't protect you. ]

[ John scans the drawing quickly, mostly noticing the utter lack of reference -- meaning, it looks like absolutely nothing, just a bunch of lines interconnected, maybe something a four-year old could do. Scoffing, he snatches his wallet from between Sherlock's fingers, slipping it back into his pocket and giving the other man a very obvious once-over, foot to head. Mind you, there's something very nice, very comforting about waiting for someone and having them come back to you... It's something almost -- well, it's good, he likes it, could get used to this, if the Collected IQ's of the Holmes Brothers have decided it's actually a useful course of action to send Sherlock off on MI6 missions like bloody James Bond.

For God's sake, though. Really. ]

Obviously, you couldn't for the life of you perpetuate my face. [ He nods once at the drawing for clarification, then casts a glance around in search of the nearest vendor. There's a stall further down the street that sells roasted pig on spit and they'll have that, because for all he knows, Sherlock's still doing his can't-eat-while-working routine, very unhealthy, very ill-advised, but there you have it. Looking back up at Sherlock in disguise and someone's bound to think he's entertaining Prague's most theatrical hobo, John purses his lips slightly. ] Lunch?

[ John's unimpressed by his meager attempt at charcoal art and Sherlock really can't blame him. He crumbles the paper up and throws it in a nearby bin before looking back at the other man. Sherlock's no longer smiling but there's a warmth in his eyes, something that lingers as John tells him he couldn't hope to perpetuate his face - and isn't it funny, how right he is? Sherlock's seen him in his mind many, many times over the past years and there's something about John's voice, in particular, that's so very distinctive and relatively easily duplicated. But his face. His expressions. The plasticity of it and the range of emotions...

No, Sherlock really couldn't. Not for the life of him. ]

Starving.

[ He is, actually. He hasn't eaten anything since they got off the plane and with John right there, as usual, the two of them striking up a fast but easy pace towards the stalls further down the street, he's feeling it quite keenly. The need. Generally speaking, broadly speaking, the works. He straightens his back, sniffs the air and feels alive. ]

psl.

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