docwithablog

[ 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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