psl.

[docwithablog]

the first | action
the second | random scenario
the third | action
the fourth | texting
the fifth | action
the sixth | action
the seventh | shipping picture prompt
the eighth | action
the ninth | texting
the tenth | texting
the eleventh | action
the twelfth | texting
the thirteenth | action
the fourteenth | texting
the fifteenth | action
the sixteenth | action
the seventeenth | action (unfinished)

Comments

[docwithablog]

[ 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?

[acuriousincident]

[ 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. ]