docwithablog

[ A year after ending his community service with them, he's still working with the Barbican Homeless Centre's Emergency Response Team. He's really only scheduled to clock in for the odd weekend night shifts, but on busy (read: awful) days during the week, he'll show up for their evening briefings and ask to be put to use. Fortunately -- or perhaps, not so fortunately, they're always a couple of hands short and he's always got a pair to lend, so no one asks questions, least of all John. He takes whatever assignments land on their table, waits for Hugh to drive them to the scene and does what it takes to get things under control. Oh, but it's a lovely little illusion, isn't it? That things can actually get under control again.

Well, maybe they can. For some people.

Tonight's been a busy one. They'd already had two code orange calls when someone alerted them to a man in Regent's Park who's definitely passed out, possibly under the influence and could they check that he isn't, what do they know, choking on his own vomit, please. They had looked at each other knowingly, because the man's vomit is probably the least of his worries currently, before packing their things and gathering in the van. Halfway there, a second call cut through, a code red from the other end of town involving a mass fight, broken bottles, the circus, so in the end -- well, they'd dropped John off at Regent's Park with his kit, although they normally never work alone, the rest of the team heading for Neasden.

The sun's beginning to set. The sky's blushing. It's all very -- yes, very pretty and John Watson has a homeless person to save, doesn't he? North end, drinking fountain, they'd said. Stupid sod's better not actually tried to move. ]

[ It had been weirdly unproblematic and, really, just plain weird going to sleep alongside Sherlock. He'd borrowed a pair of pyjama bottoms from the other man, before climbing to bed, at least a good five inches too long in the trouser legs and as such, pooling around his feet, but it wasn't like it was going to matter once he was actually lying down. It wasn't like it mattered, compared to all the rest.

Strangely enough, he'd fallen asleep relatively quickly. More quickly than was his usual routine, a couple of hours of wakefulness ending on the note of some whiskey to help his very present, very pressing tiredness along. It had been indescribably nice to close his eyes and -- well, fall into the sound of Sherlock's breathing. Rest on the realization of togetherness.

Could get used to this, had been his last conscious thought.

When he wakes up, it's with a loud gasp, his entire body shooting upright, arms carrying his weight against the mattress, fingers clenching into painful fists. He blinks against the shadows of the room, the image of Sherlock -- on the pavement, head smashed in, blood, eyes staring, broken bones, internal bleeding, dead, dead, dead, a stark drama playing out again at the back of his mind. Sherlock would've liked the theatre of it, wouldn't he? John's breathing is harsh, heavy inhalations, exhalations that are tearing from his lungs. A sweat has broken out across his forehead, along his temples, the salt of it feeling stiff where it drips down his cheeks -- oh, wait, that's not -- that's --

Shit. Another shaky breath, then he runs his palm down over his face. ]

John.

[ They've texted back and forth throughout the day and consequently, John has maybe been half as productive as he'd normally be, leaving 100 percent of the blood work to the nurses and only double checked a third of his files for readability before dumping them on the secretary's desk while waiting for the next text, the next, the next sign of bloody life. Bickering with the other man over the phone again has felt like an almost physical relief, the same way returning to Baker Street was the night before -- although John can still feel, of course, that it's new, relatively untested ground that they're walking on. It's been two years, after all. Two long years.

He thinks of Sherlock's fingers massaging his neck, the heat of his palm over his skin and then, he doesn't think about it anymore, because it's only a symptom of something else, something bigger, isn't it?

After getting off work, he takes the bus to Marylebone Station and drops by the grocer's, doing some shopping which is approximately as familiar an experience as snapping at Sherlock via text. Then, he walks the short, well-known way back (home) to 221B, a bag in either hand, letting himself in with the old key he still has for some reason (everything happened in a bit of a blur, back when he moved out, to be fair) and scaling the stairs, first one flight, then the other before entering the kitchen the direct route. ] Don't mind me. [ Not that Sherlock will, of course, he'd have deduced it was John by the way he bloody well pushed down the door handle or something, if he hasn't seen him from the window. However, it feels nice to say. It feels nice to indulge the routine of it, like it's something they've been doing forever, like there hasn't been any intermission at all.

He places the two bags of groceries on the kitchen table, still thankfully rid of science equipment and bloody specimens. Who knows, the fridge might even be empty, no dead people parts yet. Most definitely nothing to eat. ]

[ They're headed home, crossing over Piccadilly Circus amidst hoards of people and Sherlock keeps his mind as focused as possible, though there's a heavy exhaustion threatening to sneak up on him and leave him powerless. They managed to get the Serbs and prevent the murder of a prominent politician, no doubt leading to several handshakes in Mycroft's favour and a veritable disaster in the mainland criminal world. Sherlock is trying to block it out, currently, the case, the details. His body aches in all the most obvious places - shoulders, thigh, fingers - and all he can think is over, it's over, followed by a sweeping sensation of lethargy. He keeps his hands buried in his pockets as he navigates the crowd, picking up on random cues despite his best intentions and trying to just. Leave it be.

Disregard.

John's following along next to him. Finishing this particular case with him has been... nice. He's thought very little about the last time he saw Milošević. He's thought very little about anything but the rush of the case, the thrill of finally tying up all the loose ends. It was good, seeing Lestrade again as well. He's managed to fight his way back up the ranks, despite Sherlock's untimely departure which left his entire department looking a lot worse for wear. No hard feelings either, quite the opposite. Sherlock can't remember the other man actually hugging him before, ever, and while he's not exactly anxious to repeat the experience, it was... well, it wasn't bad. It was uncomplicated. He glances sideways at John.

Everything, a lot less complicated than you might think. ]

[ It's raining.

The flat is cold and damp, wind coming in through cracks in the window frame. He doesn't feel any of it, not the coldness, not the wetness, because John's so incredibly hot against him, all warm, naked skin. His mouth is a furnace as they kiss and Sherlock's holding onto him with enough strength to leave marks on his arms and shoulders (there'll be nothing there in the aftermath, he knows, just as he knows he's making this up, it's nothing, it's nothing). Outside the window, a flash of lightning springs across the sky, a clap of thunder following immediately after. It's right above us he thinks, just as John pushes his hard cock between his thighs, leaving a smear of wetness in its wake.

He gasps. Writhes beneath the other man, spreading his legs and holding on. He can't possibly go away now, that would be incredibly, unforgivably rude, but all the same, Sherlock clings to him and throws his head back. John's a rude person, after all. If he wants to leave, he'll leave. And knowing what's coming, he couldn't bear it now, not when he's given himself over.

Just this once, he thinks. John reaches down and fondles his cock, long, heavy strokes and he moans out his name because he might as well, there's no one around to hear (no one, absolutely no one). The rain seems to grow heavier. He pulls the other man closer and waits for him to just do it, do it, it's not like they'll have another go, it won't matter to anyone because even Sherlock is gone these days, there's much too little left to leave a lasting impact.

Besides, judging by the rain outside, they'll be drowning by the end of it. ]

Okay, I've got, what, 27 missed calls from you. What the hell's happened?

[ With the murder of Amanda Pittsford solved to everybody's satisfaction - everybody, meaning the grieving brother, the Met and the British government - Sherlock's content to sit back in the cab and simply watch London flash by outside the windows. His mind is going two hundred miles a minute, still, running through the facts of the case and comparing them, categorising, deleting all irrelevant information. It's a process he's chosen to call clean-up, something he began doing after Peru, in particular. It's not strictly necessary any longer but after two years, it's a habit and his mind simply likes doing it, for reasons he's chosen not to examine too closely.

He's very conscious of John in the seat next to him, the rustling of his clothes, the proximity of his body. John, who did very well today, even if he didn't realise it and not just by leaning to speak Pigeon. He smiles to himself very briefly, one foot tapping lightly against the floor of the cab. God, he likes finishing cases. Wrapping them up. Even if he didn't share the big fish with Lestrade this time around, there's something deeply satisfying about knowing that Ian Pittsford won't be collecting any more women in his little digital scrapbook.

He glances sideways at John. Wondering, perhaps a bit hopefully, whether John's figured it out. That the grand reveal was lacking a few key elements, including any and all mentions of a certain Sibyl. ]

[ The discrepancy is almost tangible, now that Sherlock's had his hair cut, bringing him appearance-wise back to what he looked like prior to his great mission out in the big, damn world. If you don't take his scarred back into account, of course, although John assumes Sherlock isn't likely to let anyone come close enough to have a look at... his back -- or all the things that aren't immediately noticeable, like his apparent fear of letting anyone near with sharp objects, something that basically led him to let his hair grow Tarzan-style for a good couple of months. Because he was afraid of -- yeah. Yeah.

Two days later, the man's been hanging around the flat mostly, no interesting cases -- well, not interesting enough must be the verdict, there have certainly been a few potential clients by, though they were quickly shown the door, because -- does Sherlock even need an excuse to be rude to people at this point? Dull, boring, they're really just convenient excuses while he waits for the next big fish.

Standing with his back to the door, John's busy drying off his hair, having just stepped out of the shower where he's spend a generous amount of time thinking about what will be the easiest way to engage Sherlock in anything not case-related. His blues have become more a sort of slump and aren't, obviously, always related to cases anymore either. They're just there, like dead periods.

You'd think he'd had enough of those. That they both had. ]

Is this a case of gay panic or is it just a case, because the latter will get you in far less trouble than the former, Sherlock.

[ 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. ]

[ Prague isn't the worst place you could possibly go, late-October. The sky's been bluer than -- well, something very blue, tufts of clouds wafting by over his head while he's busied himself playing tourist, intersected by a few choice courier jobs texted to him by Sherlock. Picking up a parcel from someone, dropping it off in some unmarked mailbox, delivering a message, little spikes of adrenaline, excitement, in the lull of drinking lots of fine, quality beer and eating goulash for lunch, followed by some cheap bites of roasted pork on spit while wandering through the streets today.

He's not currently eating. Or drinking. Or being useful, no, he isn't doing that either, because he hasn't actually heard from Sherlock since his last assignment the previous night and it's beginning to worry him a little, although he knows what to expect from him, doesn't he? It's been more than 30 hours since they arrived, it's almost noon now, second day. For all John can calculate, he will need to keep himself entertained for another couple of hours, if not the entire day...

So, here he is.

Mind you, Charles Bridge is a tourist trap, to say the least and really, a terrible place unless you want to get asked twice every two minutes whether you'd like to have your portrait painted (very distinctive face, sir, 20 Euros) or, what does he know, get a very questionable type to hold your phone for you and take a picture of you in front of the Crucifix. Besides, the masses are aggressive as hell and he has to dodge people left and right not to get shouldered and consequently, murder someone. Managing to break free of the worst crowds, he stops next to one of the apparently and thankfully less popular statues, leaning against the balustrade and watching the river, lips pursed.

Oh, you better wrap this one up and quickly, you utter cock. He hates being parked like this. ]

[ The Vepřová Pečeně didn't disappoint and they took their sweet time, meandering through inner Prague and enjoying the taste of spit-roasted pork and potato dumplings. He's found a way to get John up to date on the case of the missing puzzle without actively putting him in danger by over-loading him with details; while he's managed to get around Taisumov, he's not taking any chances. They may have ruined a grand part of the Baron's criminal empire but certain networks are long-lived. Just because Moriarty's gone, doesn't mean the people who made use of his services aren't still as power-hungry as ever.

Once back at the small but luxurious hotel (courtesy of Mycroft's last-minute planning, once he'd realised that John was joining them - his brother is nothing if not adaptable), he's currently taking advantage of the massive bathroom - featuring both a large, claw-foot tub and a modern shower stall with five (why?) different shower-settings. He's in dire need of a shower, really, after 41 hours of more or less constant action. In the adjacent bedroom, he can hear John rustling about. He breathes out slowly, breathes in. Drops his get-up item by item, putting them in a heap in the corner of the room to be disposed of before they leave the country.

Off with the fake chin, off with the nose, the wig - and he looks at himself, very briefly, in the huge mirror lining the wall. He's still paler than he ought to be, his cheekbones pronounced along with most other bones in his upper body. He purposefully doesn't look himself over any further than that, heading straight for the shower stall and turning on the ordinary rain setting. The water takes less than five seconds to warm up and he sighs, loudly, as he stands underneath the spray. ]

the first.

the third.

the fourth. 1/4

the fifth.

the sixth.

the eighth.

the ninth.