storyline one.

[docwithablog]

chronology -

00. word association w/ Sherlock

1. gen texting w/ Sherlock

2. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

3. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

4. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

5. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

6. texting w/ Sherlock

7. texting w/ Sherlock

8. texting w/ Sherlock

9. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

10. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

11. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

12. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

13. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

14. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

15. texting w/ Sherlock

16. otherwordly w/ Sherlock

17. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

18. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

19. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

20. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

21. texting - part one | texting - part two w/ Sherlock

22. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

23. texting w/ Sherlock

24. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

25. texting w/ Sherlock

26. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

27. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

28. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

29. truth or dare w/ Sherlock

00. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

30. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

31. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

32. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

33. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

34. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

35. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

36. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

37. texting w/ Sherlock

38. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

39. the case of the devil's root w/ Sherlock

00. word association w/ Sherlock

00. texting w/ Sherlock

00. penny for your thoughts w/ Sherlock

40. midnight texting w/ Sherlock

41. interlude w/ Sherlock

42. interlude w/ Sherlock

43. interlude w/ Sherlock

44. texting w/ Sherlock

45. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

46. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

47. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

48. texting w/ Sherlock

49. texting w/ Sherlock

50. texting w/ Sherlock

51. anniversary w/ Sherlock

52. texting w/ Sherlock

53. interlude w/ Sherlock

Comments

2.

[acuriousincident]

[ They've been underway for about fifteen minutes, the train hurtling north along the tracks towards Liverpool. At this time of the day, it isn't terribly crowded yet and they've managed to grab an unoccupied tableseat, Sherlock claiming the window and splaying out his coat onto the neighbouring seat, just to discourage anyone from getting ideas. Lots of free seats all around, people, no need to infringe upon his personal space. Like this, he's currently watching the landscape go by, gaze tracking back and forth. He's got the (unopened) pack of rosin in one pocket, still, fingers playing with it idly as he thinks over the facts of the case, such as they are.

On the face of it, it seems a relatively straightforward assumption that something criminal has taken place (and thus naturally, that's what the police assume because they're all incompetent to various but sadly persistent degrees). One, there's the message urging one Elizabeth to contact the police (the use of the word tell rather than call - intriguing). Two, there's the regularity of Staunton's existence, the total lack of excitement in his life on any known parameters - get out of bed in the morning, make ready for work, go to work, stay until late, go home, sleep, rinse repeat (meaning, a man of habits - though, if you're clever, you ask yourself why). No signs of any criminal connections or associates, no apparent enemies, perhaps except for his fellow violinists, many of whom seem openly jealous at his talents.

Not exactly any obvious reasons for disappearing into thin air, all in all. Boring as his life may usually appear (can't know for sure, not enough data, dangerous to presume), Staunton's certainly made himself a bit of a mystery. ]

[docwithablog]

[ At Euston Station, Sherlock had been waiting for him, all mysterious and all stupid cheekbones in his long coat, collar up and they must have seemed like something out of a noir-type spy film as John had walked over to him and handed him the small pack of rosin, no doubt looking like the most middle-class drug dealer in the history of -- Well, Sherlock could probably tell him, right? He's got the experience, supposedly. Not that John doesn't still have a hard time wrapping his mind around that fact, Jesus. One of many things about Sherlock Holmes, he's beginning to realise, that you just have to accept and move on from.

Like the way he'd just pocketed the rosin and turned on his heel, heading for the platform opposite. No explanations. Nothing.

For now, they're sitting at one of the tables in the train towards Liverpool, because someone from there has got himself killed or kidnapped or in some other way vanished and Sherlock's excited (not that he currently looks it, his eyes tracking the landscape outside the window as it hurtles by, zoom, zoom, zoom) while John's simply too damn unemployed at the moment to turn down a chance of doing something else than empty one more half-full storage box, not that he came with a lot of those to begin with, right? Christ.

Blink, blink. He licks his bottom lip and leans forward, folding his hands neatly on top of the table, looking over at Sherlock with an eyebrow that's on a slow, but steady rise. ]

Are you going to tell me why I had to cross town to get you this very particular and might I add not exactly cheap pack of rosin?

3.

[acuriousincident]

[ After a less than eventful visit to Staunton's family home, an immense villa on the peninsula of Wirral in Heswall, they'd gone to visit Elizabeth Overstowe, a retired teacher living in a small townhouse in central Liverpool. Though his parents hadn't been forthcoming in any way whatsoever (newly rich, constructed a business empire from scratch, extremely private and apparently willfully ignorant as to the existence of their only son), one of the old maids of the household had caught with them on their way out, telling them to look up Mrs. Overstowe who'd "know of the boy if anyone does, she's always been there for him". Sherlock, on his part, was happy to have one theory confirmed. Estranged doesn't even begin to cover this.

Their visit to Elizabeth Overstowe has left them quite winded, though, seeing as they had to actually flee the premises. Those things happen but then again, she hadn't been at all forthcoming with any useful information so he doesn't really care. They're currently half-running down a small street lined with shops when he spots a coffee house on the corner. He comes to a complete stop, somewhat abruptly. ]

John! [ He points at the coffee shop. It's a relatively popular chain but it doesn't look crowded right now and he really needs to think. Gaze scanning the windows quickly (young couple, infatuated, too busy staring into each other's eyes to be disruptive; two students, university-age, heavy-looking bags, here to study and nothing else; old lady with a tiny dog) he nods to himself. It's fine, it'll do.] Coffee break!

[ Without further comment or elaboration, he crosses the street and heads for the narrow stairs leading to the entrance. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Most likely, he should be concerned with the fact that they got bloody well caught lurking at some nice, old lady's bedroom window and actively had to flee the place, running half across Liverpool with an angry neighbour at their heels. Because it's stuff like that, always getting into bloody trouble, which makes Sherlock seem completely at odds with the rest of the world, normalcy, whatever you want to call it. However, a good run was probably just what the doctor ordered, shit, after their visit to Staunton's childhood home which albeit much grander and richer than the shoddy Chelmsford townhouse he grew up in, still reeked of all the same problems and pretty much the same outcome, too.

So, John has spent most of their great escape thinking and wishing that he just -- wouldn't, really.

Suddenly, up front, because Sherlock happens to have much longer legs than him, the other man comes to an abrupt halt and yells his name, waving his arm at a coffee house across the street briefly before -- yes, as you'd expect, crossing the street and quite simply calling it a break all by himself, leaving John to desperately try and catch his breath (Army shape's seeping out of him, isn't it) while stumbling after Sherlock towards the coffee shop, catching up to him approximately two steps and a flight of stairs from the entrance. ]

Great! Good, very good. [ Coffee. Better than beer which is what he truly craves right now, go figure. ] Are you actually going to ingest something this time around?

4.

[docwithablog]

[ It's almost midnight. They've been sitting in this car -- a steel grey BMW M5, because apparently everyone and their mothers in Liverpool likes big sedans to go with their hooligan behaviour, for seven and a half hours now, their stakeout only interrupted briefly by a very one-sided lunch break around six and whatever stints John has otherwise required in order to go take a leak. Apparently, Sherlock Holmes has a bladder made from bloody iron to match the stupid cheekbones, yes? Jesus Christ. He huffs out a breath, turning to the next page of the book he bought at the grocer's, some cheap mystery novel, like John Watson is currently in need of any more bloody mysteries... Anyway, he had a feeling this was where things were going, so he brought entertainment, hoping he wouldn't need it. Seeing as exactly nothing is currently happening further up the street in front of Overstowe's house, however, it might have been a good call on his part, after all.

Skimming the page, he turns to the next. ]

Oh, by the way. [ While he has filled in Sherlock on the major crimes he could sniff out from the headlines in the various local papers, things like an identity thief who'd bought a new condo in the name of the man whose identity he'd snatched and now the landowner is fighting a bitter fight to ensure that the victim has to pay up front or a still unknown man redistributing stolen goods in Toxteth, he suddenly recalls something that had seemed pretty minor to him at the time, minor enough that he hadn't actually copied the article, though he does remember what it said. ] There was a brawl in front of a pub in Ropewalks last week. Seems to fit the profile.

[ Next page. Another lady dies. Very sad. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ He watches the house carefully, as he's done for the entire duration of their stake-out. It's getting progressively obvious that Elizabeth Overstowe is nothing if not a woman of quiet, unassuming habits. So far, they've watched her hang out her washing to dry - water the roses in her flowerbed out front - and accept deliveries by her door, having apparently chosen to forego grocery shopping. All in all, nothing of note; but then again, there wouldn't be, would there, at any sensible time of day? He thinks about Staunton's message again. Tell the police. Tell them. Gaze slipping from the house to the street (cars lining the parking spaces, most of them taken except a few at the opposite end, street lights on, only a few people out and about at this hour, though the busier mainstreet further down is bustling with activity - quiet area, this, comparatively, good place to hide away once your terrible parents have thrown you out for the second or third time), he blinks as John's voice intrudes upon his thought process.

There was a brawl he says. Eyes narrowing, he glances sideways. ]

You didn't think to tell me that earlier? [ An exasperated exhalation. ] What happened? Any arrests?

[ Just as he finishes his last question, the front door opens. His gaze snaps back to the front of the house. After a few seconds, Elizabeth Overstowe steps outside carefully, glancing to all sides and looking distinctively uncomfortable (hunched shoulders, arms crossed against her upper body, gaze jumping from place to place, body movements erratic) before heading for her small Fiat Panda parked right by the pavement. He breathes out slowly. Notes what he can from this distance (clothes: unchanged from earlier in the day, practical and unremarkable; boots, not shoes, insulated and heavy-looking, good grip for slippery or muddy roads; scarf half-covering her face and a coat just a fraction too hot for the weather - accessories: bag over shoulder, filled with... cardboard boxes, small, several stacked on top of each other, probably not groceries but something else, something of practical value) and pushes the key into the ignition. ]

5.

[acuriousincident]

[ After another day's worth of waiting around aimlessly except for one little job he'd had to do, they're now on their way out of Liverpool, the clock close to midnight and the landscape turning less crowded from buildings and streets with every kilometer they travel. The GPS is taking them north along the A565, the small dot on his phone screen tracker moving slowly but surely towards whatever destination Elizabeth Overstowe is headed for tonight. So far, it's been twenty-seven minutes and she's beginning to slow down along the coastal road near Southport. They're ten minutes behind her.

Though logically, she could be visiting relatives (close to midnight? perhaps not so logically, really). She might even be visiting friends, going by their prior experiences. But he's fairly certain she's here for something else, something that demands her attention and can't be postponed. She hasn't postponed for him at any point in his life, has she? Why start now. Sherlock had a text from Overton earlier in the day, asking for an update and he's yet to answer, mostly because he's got a feeling he might want to actually know what's up before he tells him anything whatsoever. He thinks about the Staunton family house, the expensive rooms, the coldness of them. Then, for the briefest, briefest moment, he thinks about his own family and shuts down the trail of thought before it gets anywhere conclusive.

He stares straight ahead, gaze following the dark road and the grassy planes stretching on either side of it. Further down to the left, there's the sea. Next to him, there's John. John, who's once again been incredibly useful. Good thing he's here, really. Good thing. ]

[docwithablog]

[ He's still thinking about his phone. He's been looking for it all day and if Sherlock hadn't felt an absolute need to drag him along for the rest of the case, he would have considered going to the police and have them look into it for him. It's one of the new iPhone models, expensive as all hell and he won't be able to afford a new one in the next couple of bloody months, if he doesn't manage to get it back. However, Sherlock did drag him along once more and is currently tracking Overstowe again, this time a bit more successfully with what looks to be the help of some tracking device. John glances down at the screen of the other man's phone where a small dot moves ahead of them on the A565, wondering whether big brother Mycroft has anything to do with this. John honestly hadn't imagined that Sherlock would go to him for help with much of anything, but perhaps if a case becomes pressing enough. Who knows. Difficult relationship, Mycroft had called it. Yeah, John's sure...

Squinting somewhat, he realises that something -- that looks like -- his name is written over the dot and he leans down a bit, the moving cursor marked with John Watson's iPhone in a faint, grey writing. Wait. ]

Wait. [ He hears himself say. Has Sherlock planted his phone on the old lady and failed to bloody well tell him? Are they tracking his -- Wait. His voice is running on an undercurrent of a whole day's frustration and a rather fast-surging anger, because for God's sake, man, he'd have lent it to you if you'd just fucking asked! ] Are you logged into my account, too? I changed all my passwords weeks ago, after... [ The wave breaks. ] Sherlock! Christ, are you completely --

[ Since he can't even find the right words, he looks up from the phone finally and stares into the side of the other man's face, challenging him to meet his gaze, exasperated as he realises that Sherlock is probably as unbothered by this as he is by anything just bordering on decency. ]

6.

[acuriousincident]

Remind me not to leave the bedroom window open during the day.

[docwithablog]

Yeah, there's a list in the kitchen you can add it to.

7.

[docwithablog]

Listen, I'm going to be late tonight.

[acuriousincident]

Yes, yes. Another "date", is it?

8.

[acuriousincident]

Quick, which would you rather die from - Smallpox or the Spanish flu?

[docwithablog]

Spanish flu.

10.

[acuriousincident]

[ He's miscalculated slightly (and only that), meaning that the high will last him closer to four hours than three, with 90 minutes already passed. Other than that, though, he's fine. Totally. He's currently resting on the sofa, stretched out and limp as a noodle, gaze searching the ceiling randomly while his brain swims about in a veritable sea of dopamine, keeping him well and truly happy. The past weeks have been hellish, to be honest; he's still waiting for the illusive Moriarty to come out of whatever hole he crawls into whenever he's not pulling strings in the criminal underworld (in whichever way he does it; without data, Sherlock can't hope to properly theorize and nothing else will do in this instance, no mistakes can be allowed) and crime rates are... well. They're not abysmal, according to Lestrade but what does that matter when the criminals have no imagination, no creativity?

And then, there's John.

John, John, John. Sherlock frowns, the movement sluggish, his face feeling somewhat numb at this point. He's at work and won't be home for another couple of hours (long enough for the high to wear off, oh, that part he's calculated exactly right). His absence, temporary as it may be, feels... odd. Like an ache, almost. Ever since they moved in together, Sherlock's noticed an ever-increasing sense of alertness concerning the other man, like his brain keeps returning to him whenever there's nothing else online (and at times, even when there is). He remembers a conversation they've had, something funny he's said or done, the food he cooked the other night, his clothes, his scent. Apparently, every tiny little detail pertaining to John Watson is lodging itself firmly in his mind, like an archive of seemingly useless information building up and up and up and --

Ugh. He doesn't know what to do with any of that. Thank God his body can't get excited about any of it right now. ]

[docwithablog]

[ It's simply been one of those days, hasn't it? Christ.

Almost as soon as he clocked in at work, his phone died on him, the battery slightly unreliable after its trip in Overstowe's car and he probably needs to have someone take a look at it. At some point. Not now. Now he's on his way back to Baker Street, two hours earlier than anticipated, because Sarah took one look at him during their lunch break, not even getting anywhere near his burning forehead with her undoubtedly cool hand before exclaiming that he was an infectious hazard and ought to go home, pronto. Since she's his boss and he's still patiently waiting for her to put out, he agreed and clocked out again, dropping by the grocer's on the way to do some shopping, just the instant coffee they're once more missing, because they go through those jars like candy, and some new toast, seeing as the old pack got mouldy before its time, possibly thanks to Sherlock, you can just never know these days.

The man's going stir-crazy.

Taking the stairs two steps at a time, he pretty much bursts through the entrance leading to the kitchen, plastic bag slamming against the door and he should be more careful, he can't rely on Sherlock to fix another one, it was enough of a miracle that he fixed John's bedroom door in the first place. ] Would've texted you, but my phone's dead again. [ Instant coffee, three jars, up in the cupboard. Toast in the bread box. Milk in the fridge -- is that a foot, definitely female, judging by the size... For God's sake, Sherlock. He slams the door to the fridge shut, too. ] It appears doctors shouldn't treat patients when they're coming down with a fever. Do we have any Paracetamol, by the way. I forgot to buy any. [ Rummaging through one of the kitchen cupboards first and coming up empty-handed, he turns towards the living room doorway. Did he relocate his medicine stash to the bathroom last time he cleaned the place or, more accurately, last time he moved three things around and pissed off Sherlock by doing so? John honestly can't remember. ]

11.

[acuriousincident]

[ So, the high is definitely gone and the drop to the bottom is long. For the past day and a half, he's been feeling the withdrawal effects quite acutely, curled up in bed and trying to distract himself by reading whatever pops up on his phone whilst randomly browsing the news. He can't remember anything he's read so far; it's all a blur. He's managed to vomit a grand total of fifteen times since this afternoon and he's light-headed from it. On top of that, his muscles have started cramping every third minute or so, his legs or his feet seizing up to the point where he can't think about anything else. He's currently lying down, twisting back and forth whenever the spasms cease, trying to give his muscles some sort of relief.

Whilst he really likes the peace and quiet in his head - and craves it, at times - this part of the process is just flat-out ridiculous. Biting back a groan as another cramp suddenly leaves his left leg bent in a very odd position, he throws an arm over his face and tries not to inhale his own sweat. The sheets are wet from it. God, this is - ah... He rubs his thigh compulsively, fingers digging into the muscle.

He's trying to keep quiet about it for several reasons, the most important being that John's home and he doesn't need him to see this any more than he already has. It's humiliating. It's beyond humiliating, actually, seeing as he's brought it on himself squarely and solely. All the same, a very hoarse whimper does escape him when his leg finally relaxes, only... to seize up... again... ]

Oh, Christ.

[docwithablog]

[ It's after midnight, second day. John's fever has dropped and he's well on his way out on the other side of a very brief stint at the flu, the way it always is with him, short, but intense, yeah. He talked to Sarah a couple of hours prior, told her about the situation in the strictest confidence and she'd been very good about it, listened attentively and then said: are you sure you're up for this, John? He'd told her it was fine, he'd seen worse in his career than an addict withdrawing to which she'd replied: but I'm not talking about your professional life, I'm talking about your private one which for some irrational reason had made him angry with her. I'll just cash in my extra holiday, he'd answered and hung up with a terse talk to you later.

Since then he hasn't been able to sleep, hearing little exclamations of pain coming from Sherlock's room, although they're impressively sparse and far between. John turns onto his side on the sofa, but only remains in that position for another long moment before getting up. The man will need fluids and with what sounds like horribly cramping legs, he isn't going to get it himself. Obvious, as Sherlock would say. Usually he leaves it to the nurses, this aspect of patient care, not because he's incapable of it, but because he thinks there should be a clear division of work responsibilities.

Except, this isn't work. He heads for the kitchen.

Pushing the door open to Sherlock's room two minutes later, the stench of old vomit and ditto sweat hitting his nostrils like a thick fog, his face remains pretty much impassive -- very much contrary to Sherlock who's lying in an odd position, rubbing at his left thigh. John just puts the carafe with cold water and the clean glass down next to the used one on the bedside table, before he steps back, looking Sherlock over. ]

Is it travelling up? Any abdominal pain?

12.

[acuriousincident]

[ He's busy folding sheets now, fingers working fast with steady precision. His tremors are gone along with the pain in his muscles and skin - instead, for the past two days, he's had cravings. Massive, beastly cravings. The mere thought is enough to make him glance towards the mantle and the old Persian slipper. There's an ampoule in the very tip, tucked in with old newspaper and he keeps thinking he should at least... move it out of immediate sight. Except, then he'll have to touch it.

He definitely shouldn't do that.

John's left the flat three hours ago. They'd had a... bit of a tiff, basically, with Sherlock yelling at him for the umpteenth time about something that didn't matter even slightly. What was it, his phone having been relocated from one horizontal surface to another? He can't even properly remember. There's been a lot of that ever since he finally got out of bed - fighting, yelling. And this, too, trying to make it up somehow, in this case actually doing the washing that's accumulated over the past three days. He did leave some of it downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, basically pushing it into her arms and running away before she could properly protest.

He's been airing out the flat as well, just to take out the smell of sick and sweat. All in all, he thinks as he glances towards the mantle again, they are recalibrating. Whether that's good or terrible he can't quite decide - after all, a return to normalcy (such as it is) means a return to thinking with nothing to think about. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Day six. Day bloody six.

He'll be returning to work tomorrow which is undoubtedly a good thing, because they've started shouting at each other over completely ridiculous details like the fact that John dared to move Sherlock's phone from the coffee table to the mantle, because he was dusting -- an activity, mind you, that he very rarely engages in and even less now that he's living in Baker Street, because there's just no end to it. Dust accumulates, you remove it, it accumulates again and in that mess, Jesus. Not going there ever, ever again. Sherlock had given him a nice round of verbal abuse that he took for all of five minutes before yelling back at him fix your own damn messes, then, I'm going shopping and grabbing his coat on the way out the door, almost running Mrs Hudson down in the process.

He hadn't gone shopping, though. Not at first, at least. He went to the pub, grabbed a round of beer, maybe two and then he went shopping. Now he's returned, stalking up the stairs to the kitchen and more or less throwing the bags onto the kitchen counter. Sherlock's in the living room -- folding sheets? Seriously. Can his huge brain and even bigger ego actually deal with something so mundane? Impressive.

Yeah, he's not really impressed. He's frustrated still, has been frustrated for days at this point. Beginning to basically slap milk and some goulash-ish meat mix into the fridge, the dead people stuff that Sherlock keeps in there beginning to look strange after five days of the man being bedbound, John says over one shoulder, tone brusque: ]

I'm clocking in at seven tomorrow.

13.

[docwithablog]

[ So, what do you do with yourself when you've got kidnapped, decked in explosives, saved by the bell, only to get aimed at by snipers once more and thus, offer yourself up for a joined suicide with your flatmate who also happens to be the most arrogant, adrenaline-addicted and altogether amazing person you've ever had the misfortune of meeting? Well, John can tell you what you don't do, you definitely don't stay up to talk it over, instead grabbing a quick shower, an even quicker bite to eat (beans on toast, but who cares, really) and going to bed with a surprisingly calm you going to be all right at Sherlock's turned back at the table -- though, without really waiting for an answer.

He's been lying here now for, what, a couple of hours. On his back, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows move over the walls in time with cars driving by down on the road. White lights, red lights, green lights -- someone changed his mind. The question is who. The question is who. No, the question is why John can still feel the weight of Semtex down his front, why he can't stop thinking about Sherlock crouching down in front of him, getting it off, the vest, half his cardigan, too. You, ripping my clothes off -- People might talk. A groan. He turns onto his side so hard the bed creaks, it's screeching, really, why is it so loud? Why doesn't Sherlock play his violin? Why haven't they talked?

They almost died. That's what people do.

Another groan, angrier this time and he turns onto his other side, facing the window, the light from outside. He kept thinking the same thing when the snipers aimed their little red dots on Sherlock, the same thing he'd been thinking that night with the cabbie. What would be left to live for, if... if... What would be left? Besides him, alone. Yeah, besides that. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ He's been working this cold case - a woman who reported her lover missing, only to find another man killed in a ditch, wearing his (actual) face - all evening so far and while it isn't getting him anywhere, it's keeping his mind occupied. And at this point, he really doesn't want to know what happens once it stops. This game of theirs - his, Moriarty's - has been going on for much, much longer than these past 24 hours. What they've had today was a short but explosive crescendo and his mind is running three tracks at once; 1) cold case, 2) Moriarty's next step and 3) John. The latter is an ever-present feedback loop starting with are you all right? and ending with a bang that never happens, the two of them back here in 221B, waiting for the next run. As for Moriarty, eventually they will meet again. For now, he'll be listening for his echoes and looking for his signature, trace him and wait until they drift into each other's orbits once more, irreversibly. Your move, Jim.

He stares at the evidence on the table, unseeingly. His mind keeps returning to track number 3, overriding the rest. John, decked out in explosives. John telling him yes, do it, waiting for the bomb to go boom and take down all of them in a blaze of hell. Bizarrely, he keeps wondering why it didn't happen, his nervous system completely over-stimulated to a point where it can't move beyond the pivotal moment, the one where they nearly... nearly...

With a harsh exclamation, he gets to his feet and pulls at his curls, pacing back and forth in the kitchen. He can't concentrate. He ought to be exhausted, maybe he should attempt to go to bed. The thought alone feels ludicrous. Sneering at no one (at everyone, basically, get the hell away from him), he leaves the evidence behind on the kitchen table and heads for - his bedroom, ideally. Logically. But no. No, his feet are taking him elsewhere, they're taking him up, up, ascending. Towards John's bedroom where the other man's sleeping (he can't possibly be sleeping, besides his bed creaks when he turns). He scales the stairs quickly, mindlessly, his hands clenching and un-clenching by his sides. ]

15.

[docwithablog]

Train's not moving. Signal failure. I'm stuck just outside Stratford Station.

[acuriousincident]

I'd suggest you walk but you aren't fast enough to make it up. How was Sarah?

17.

[acuriousincident]

[ As they step inside the dance studio, twenty-seven sets of curious eyes fixing on them, Sherlock sweeps a glance over the flock of dancers, gaze narrowed. Everybody's wearing some sort of variation over the same outfit; tights, leotards, everything exceedingly tight-fitting, showing off all lines and facets of their bodies. Naturally, they look well-trained past the normal standards of the human population; no surprises there. There's an atmosphere in the room, too, of foreboding - everywhere he looks, he sees sorrow, sadness, fear - well, mostly everywhere. One of the girls, standing by a barre in the middle of the room looks mostly blank, her face betraying nothing much though her stance says defensive and her hair says, overly finical.

But the rest of them look appropriately depressed that one of their colleagues died on stage only two days ago. The dancer in question, Alice Boulton, was apparently loved by all, whatever that means in such a highly competitive environment. Heart attack, at the age of 27. Quite rare without any pre-existing conditions, isn't it? But everybody assumes she'd simply stressed herself and her body out beyond recovery because apparently, that's a thing one associates with the ballet world. Sherlock wouldn't know. He took lessons exactly thrice when he was small. Then, he'd deduced his teacher's infidelity as well as his affinity for drink in the middle of class and they'd called his mother, telling her to take him home. People really are sensitive about the truth.

Pausing next to Mr. Russel, the ballet master, he glances sideways briefly at John before returning his attention to the dancers. Russel's introducing them, letting everybody know why they're there, asking them all to please cooperate with the investigation and to come forward if they know anything of interest regarding Alice's life or death. At that, several dancers exchange looks, most of them fleeting. Secrets, he thinks. Yeah, there are definitely enough of those in this place, loved by all or not. ]

[docwithablog]

[ The dance studio looks like most dance studios he's been to before and, believe it or not, he's actually seen his fair share. When he was still doing internships, one of the places he ended up working was as an assistant to the resident doctor at the Royal Opera House, thus learning very fast how to tell a sprain from a splinter, as well as the fact that ballerinas are lovely creatures in every aspect but personality. Good thing he's never been deterred by a bad attitude, no pun intended.

He looks sideways at Sherlock, watching the way the man coldreads the crowd, eyes narrowed and appearance aloof. The ballet master, Mr Russell, explains the circumstances to the dancers who all look in various stages of disbelief, grief, what have you. Obviously. One of their principal ballerinas keeled over on stage the other night and died from an apparent heart attack, though as her boyfriend so cleverly noted when he came to 221B, Alice Boulton had no family history of heart disease and lived a, by ballet standards, mind you, healthy and wholesome life. Ascribing her fate to the hardships of her profession is mostly just buying into the public image of the dance world. And John knows that, sure, being a ballet dancer is tough, but he's seen how these people toughed up in response. It seems unlikely that a woman who could undoubtedly crush skulls with her thighs and who, as far as he can tell, didn't have any preexisting conditions, would die doing the very same thing she's been doing every night the past ten years.

John can't tell, Sherlock's the telling one between them and only ever at the very end, right, but too many things don't seem to add up.

As Mr Russell finishes his little speech, fittingly dramatic, yes, one of the dancers, a young girl, not a day past twenty, nods at them both before slipping along the mirrored walls towards the door. John shifts from one foot to the other, staying at ease and follows her with his gaze, expression neutrally attentive. She's in a burgundy leotard and white tights, her legs exactly as long as you'd expect when she spends most of her time swinging them about. Her slippers make almost no noise against the floor and her hips shift, more than sway, because she's that awfully thin.

Also to be expected. ]

18.

[docwithablog]

[ They're on their way to Amber Verity's dressing room. John could begin questioning why, seeing as Amber Verity herself doesn't actually want to talk to them, but knowing Sherlock, there's probably going to be some degree of breaking and entering, because the man has only one MO. Well, he has several, but you begin detecting a pattern after a while. As Sherlock would say, I'm not surprised, it's pretty obvious. Sod.

They've gone through two girls already at this point and by going through, he means Sherlock being his usual, less-than-charming self in their general direction while they told him things he for the most part already knew, because he's amazing that way. Especially girl number two, Kathy, the ballerina John had been indiscreet enough to toss a glance at earlier, had gone through the grinder, seeing as Sherlock had been obviously annoyed at her. Understandably, too. The girl had spent most of their interview laughing at comments John made that weren't actually jokes or all that funny and letting her eyes stray downwards pointedly and other such distracting antics, John doing his very best to ignore it. To little avail. She was very insistent.

At least she'd confirmed that this ballet company works no differently from Royal Ballet back in John's day. The same schemes and the same observance of rank and status. Who gets the bigger part, who gets the better contract, who has whose favour. A bunch of bloody drama queens. Sherlock included, he'd like to add.

Stopping in front of Amber's door, he licks his lips and looks around slowly, demonstratively. ]

You're not going to sit around waiting for her to change her mind, I take it.

[acuriousincident]

[ The door's locked, predictably; clearly, Lonely!girl (also known as Amber Verity, apparently - personally, Sherlock thinks his is better) isn't keen on uninvited guests, just as she's almost suspiciously unwilling to talk to them, considering how one of her close colleagues just died a few days ago. Then again, no one seems to expect Amber to care even the slightest bit, if you believe the grapevine. He undoes the lock after just a few second's worth of picking it, sliding the door open.

Glancing backwards at John, he gives him a half-smile - after enduring Lovelorn!girl for all of fifteen minutes, that's really all he can manage - and steps inside. ]

She doesn't seem very likely to do so, does she?

[ The dressing room is small, equipped with a bed, a mirror, a dressing table and a closet. He looks out of the window briefly (uninteresting view over Whitechapel, a busy street two stories down, not particularly well-insulated; noisy, then, during rush hour) before going straight for her dressing table. The mirror's relatively bare, save for two photographs stuck between the frame and the wall (1) Amber and some guy - her twin brother, if he's not mistaken - hugging each other. She's smiling, albeit with just a bit of restraint, and 2) a rather messy shot of what looks to be a large, orange tabby, its nose and whiskers taking up at least a quarter of the image). The table's very orderly as well, small bottles of perfume (kenzo, elizabeth arden, expensive, classy) and cremes sitting in one corner, a jewelry box and make-up items in the other. Pause. Blink. ]

In fact, she's a little too reluctant.

[ Mostly a mutter as he starts looking around the room again, opening her closet briefly to give her clothes a quick once-over. He frowns. Turns away and stares at the dressing table, first, items on it, next and lastly - the photographs. The cat photo, in particular. His eyes narrow. ]

19.

[acuriousincident]

[ The small cafeteria is mostly empty, save for him and John and the kitchen personnel. Now and again, a dancer pops by for a cup of coffee (typically a re-fill) - lunch break isn't for another two hours. Doesn't stop John, of course, from chomping down a plateful of pasta salad. Sherlock watches him, one eyebrow raised in quiet amusement. ]

So, the facts of the case are these: [ He holds up his hand. ] Alice Boulton dies on stage from apparent heart attack, the tox screen coming back negative. No pre-existing heart condition, she's lived an above averagely healthy life and was in the midst of a blooming career. The timeline so far goes back eight months, to the untimely and frankly mysterious demise of Amber Verity's orange tabby, attributed to the cat's age or simple negligence despite her pleas to have the incident properly investigated. Two months later, a ballerina suffers a case of acute diarrhea during a show. No signs of food poisoning - [ He gestures in the direction of the kitchen. ] - kitchen in the clear.

[ He steeples his fingers beneath his chin. ]

We know Alice Boulton was popular. Aside from Amber Verity, she didn't have any obvious enemies and even then, it's doubtful that Amber would go as far as to murder her just to get ahead. It's dramatic, certainly - [ Giving John a disapproving look here, just because drama's for losers. ] - but unlikely. Now, what about the sick ballerina? [ He lowers his voice a fraction, speaking just as much to John as to himself: ] What might've happened there?

[docwithablog]

[ It's a good pasta salad.

You can't go more than a few hours between meals with Sherlock, because you never bloody know when he's going to take you on a five hour hike through London or get the both of you stuck in a sex dungeon, locked from the outside. Yeah, you simply can't be sure -- better to eat when you've got the chance and hope it'll last you until next time it presents itself. Listening intently while Sherlock runs through the case, likely poisoning, apparent heart attack, dead cat, random case of acute diarrhea, he stuffs his mouth with another forkful of pasta drenched in pesto and chews, looking over at Sherlock, watching him right back. This is what he lives for, honestly. Not the pasta salad, this, them. He raises an eyebrow at Sherlock's question, in his head running through the long list of ailments that could cause acute diarrhea on stage. ]

Nervousness can upset the bowels, but -- [ A frown. He gestures a bit with the fork, a sweeping movement to the side, like Sherlock deleting stuff out of his head, except John isn't quite that disciplined and mostly does it to hold his own focus squarely on the case, the evidence, the tiny details that he knows he's missing two thirds of, compared to the idiot sitting opposite of him. ] -- why should she be nervous? She'd danced her part a dozen times before, there was nothing new or difficult about it. No reason for nerves. [ Popping another mouthful of pasta into his mouth, he thinks it over, chews slowly. ] Unless she's suddenly developed a severe allergy to tulle or, I don't know, type 1 diabetes, there's got to be a factor we don't know about yet.

20.

[docwithablog]

[ They've just finished interviewing the dresser, Sophie, part-time employee at the company whose daytime occupation is as a theatre major at the local university and although she couldn't tell them much, she did tell them that Alice had changed in the weeks leading up to her death, had become increasingly frantic, nervous and upset, like she were finally cracking under the pressure. Nothing that couldn't be explained away as yet another artistic mind lost to stage life, but at the same time, Sophie made a point of saying that it wasn't Alice's usual demeanour at all. She was the calm, collected one, always. John frowns, following Sherlock down the hallway towards the stage, past a whole row of dressing rooms, glimpsing a pair of men in belts on his right hand and on his left -- Sherlock happens to slow down at that exact moment. Don't bloody well tell him he saw the girls in various stages of undress and thought to himself, better check on them, they look cold or something equally ridiculous. No, for Sherlock's it's no doubt case related while John's -- somewhat busy trying not to stare too much at the four girls getting into very tight fitting bodices and no tutus yet. One of them happens to be Kathy and she clocks him immediately, making a show of pinning her hair into the recognisable ballet bun they all use around here. She leaves the rest of the girls to discuss the redhead's belly button piercing (is the pendant new? so pretty in --) and walks over, looking John up and down. He swallows, purses his lips, then promptly stops pursing them because she seems to read something into absolutely everything. Hi Dr Watson, she says. He manages a strained smile. ]

Hello.

[acuriousincident]

[ He pauses at the door, spotting something in there that interests him - not the girls, mind you, but the glittering jewelry in the redhead's belly button, several of the other girls sporting the tell-tale scars from the same piercing. Apparently that's a thing. As the redhead removes the jewelry to slip on her bodice the rest of the way, the others follow suit. Kathy, naturally, just follows John with her hungry, hungry eyes. Sherlock ignores her. Focuses on the rest of the room, instead.

The dresser had been quite helpful with her descriptions of Alice's last weeks, the increasing sense of mental instability (confusion, anxiety), very unlike her normal character. It goes with the rest, he thinks, if he only he can find the source. Diarrhea, heart failure, mental problems. It could be a number of things or a clever mix of several. He looks around the room, noting the girl at the back who smiles along with the rest, laughs at all appropriate times, looks... inconspicious. But there's something about her right index finger... That's a rash! Might just be... Eyes narrowing, he watches as her gaze wanders away from the group, unaware that he's looking at her.

For a long, long moment, she simply stares at Kathy, her gaze gaining a tranquil, almost sedative quality. Sherlock, in turn, watches her. ]

22.

[docwithablog]

[ Case solved, no one actually died (no one else, that's to say) and they deserve a proper dinner. None of the takeaway boxed meals that they sometimes get, because they're very busy, apparently very important and just can't be bothered. John has fished out Jamie Oliver's quick and easy recipes from the bookshelf, whipping together a quick deep-pan pizza which has now been transferred safely to the oven -- a bit of a feat, considering how the entire length of the kitchen table as well as half the kitchen counter's full of chemistry equipment and experiments in various stages of completion. It's like moving through a bloody minefield.

Leaning against the counter, careful about the placement of his elbows, because Sherlock takes up quite a lot of space, even when he isn't there, John crosses his arms over his chest and watches the pan in the oven, the dough rising, the sausages sizzling. The smell of food is slowly drifting through the flat and in approximately twenty seconds, Sherlock's going to come through that door in search of its origin. That's how he works, always craving -- whatever, really. Work, drugs, food made by other people.

John doesn't mind. He thinks briefly about Kathy spreading her legs and telling him to entertain her, deciding without much hesitation on the matter that he's got the better deal, honestly. Little chemistry disasters, eyeballs in the fridge and a very, very strange affinity for murderers aside. Yeah, he's got it.

Raising his voice only minimally, sound travels extensively in the flat and sometimes, just sometimes he feels sorry for Mrs Hudson, John announces: ]

Tea in ten, Sherlock.

[acuriousincident]

[ He's on his bed with his back against the headboard, adding the details of Emilia Phelps' file to his digital archive. It's a relatively redundant exercise, really, as his mind palace generally carries every important detail picked up from his casework but all the same... it's like a post-case ritual, almost. With nothing else on the immediate horizon - he's working about six cold cases simultanously but right now, as it were, waiting on other people to get back to him - he can already feel a reaction coming on. Ugh. Consequently, he's also thinking about things he wouldn't be paying any heed otherwise, such as John checking out the ballerinas with their long legs and their close-fitting attires. Or Kathy, eating him with her gaze (right before she went into a coma from foxglove poisoning - not quite as cute anymore, presumably, convulsing on the floor and drooling all over the place).

No, surely he wouldn't care about that at all if he'd had something else to do.

At John's voice coming from the kitchen, Sherlock slams his computer shut, leaves it on the bed and gets to his feet. As he opens the door, he inhales, deeply. Pizza. His stomach immediately rumbles and he scowls at it, stalking into the kitchen and positively dropping into his chair by the table. Rustling around with his beakers for a moment, mostly to do something with his hands, he finally just pulls up the microscope and pops in a slide at random. He's stared at this particular blood sample all morning, granted, but here he is, doing it again. Aggressively. ]

23.

[acuriousincident]

Question: is it possible for a middle-aged man with chronic asthma to drive a bicycle for 10 miles with his skull cracked?

[docwithablog]

Is the fracture depressed?

24.

[acuriousincident]

[ When Mycroft abducted them earlier in the day, Sherlock had been quite disinterested in the whole affair; blackmail just doesn't appeal to him and the idea of working for the Royals hadn't exactly endeared him to the case, either. Playing power games with the Royal family, however, is nothing if not admirable. Worth beating the lady over, if nothing else. So he'd originally taken the case on his own terms, as an intellectual exercise. Then, seemingly to prove him right, Irene Adler has played the first move so fast and so outrageously that really, the game is on, the Royals or whichever else be damned.

The tickets for her performance in Peter Pan in the Royal Opera House lie on the kitchen table amongst beakers and distillation equipment as well as a stack of dirty dishes that might grow some curious mould if they leave them to it. She's reserved a pair of rather excellent seats for them and... well. It's been a while, hasn't it, since he went out like this? And only ever by himself. He's donning his evening attire quickly but thoroughly, even going as far as to fix up his hair in the bathroom mirror. It's not that he cares what she might think on a personal level, obviously (he is, purposefully, signaling to her that he's playing along, just to see what sort of move she'll make in return), but rather...

He pauses. Listens, trying to determine what John's doing and how far along in the process he might be. ]

[docwithablog]

[ So. They're going to the opera, then.

John has never been the overly cultural type. Museums and a play every once in a while, but the finer arts have never really appealed to him much, aside from his obvious interest in the ballerina physique, supposedly. Not that he hasn't tried. Tamsin had loved opera, back in the day -- fortunately, he'd had a deployment waiting on the horizon and she'd only got to drag him along twice. Now Sherlock's dragging him along as well, except this is for a case, this is to see what Irene Adler might do next. Considering how her first move was to blackmail a member of the Royal family, a very young and very female member as well with photos of a sexual nature, it should prove interesting. John had nursed his cup quite extensively while they'd talked about that part. Sherlock had had to tell him to put it down... Well, all of it.

Pursing his lips in the mirror in his own bedroom where he's retreated to in order to dig out his old tuxedo, still fitting snugly, Sherlock keeps him in good shape, John brushes a couple of creases out of his left sleeve. Then, he puts on his shoes, tying them quickly and moving down the staircase at a fast pace, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet of the flat. He moves down the hallway and past the bathroom, catching a glimpse of the other man out the corner of his eye.

He stops. Turns. Walks back. Looks. It takes a second to muster some sort of composure, but eventually he manages an impressively even: ]

I think I left my ties in the -- [ Meaning, your. ] -- bedroom, didn't I?

25.

[acuriousincident]

Hungry.

[docwithablog]

Didn't have anything for breakfast?

26.

[acuriousincident]

[ It's half past ten o'clock in the evening and the illusive Irene Adler has left her flat two hours ago, all evidence pointing to her leaving for a night-out (club wear, elaborate make-up, small clutch). Presumably, she might be back at any time within the next two or three hours (going by what he's been hearing about her habits from other residents in the building) or she might stay out until morning.

Consequently, they should have ample time for a break-in. Having crawled in from the roof (jumping three stories by way of individual balconies and entering through her bedroom door), they're currently making their way through her flat. The talk backstage at the opera didn't produce much data, aside from personal info and a glimpse into her professional life (she's highly conscientious about her work, has grown up in the theatre world back in the US, second home away from home but not, as it were, the hiding place for the photographs; the dressing room revealed no clues worth pursuing). She keeps those photographs, she said, for her own protection. Nothing more, nothing less.

But naturally, the Royals aren't so easily appeased.

He slips down the hallway, glancing at the paintings on the walls (most of them prints of modern art, frames unmoved since they were hung, nothing), moving quietly. John's right behind him - John, who's apparently upset with him for reasons he hasn't yet figured out. Either he does or he doesn't. Not important right now. Lips tightening, he steps inside the sitting room and looks around, gaze narrowed in the darkness. Everything's very carefully in order, it gives away nothing perhaps except for the woman's cleverness. She knows exactly what she wants to show her audience, doesn't she, at any given moment. ]

[docwithablog]

[ He can tell how his own, what, sentiment is seeping into it, like a bloody oil spill. Come on, he's not stupid, he can vividly feel how he's constantly shifting between a very irritable, very dour mood and his normal case mode, the slip happening for about every second step he takes down the hallway, not really noticing the prints on the walls (modern art, though, very cultured of her, isn't it), instead remaining mainly focused on Sherlock's back up front. He makes light work of the distance between here and there, John following along like always, because that's what he does, isn't it? You got to wonder if the other man knows where he is at this precise moment, he's finding it enough of a challenge in plenty of other contexts, after all. Maybe he should blow up a balloon, draw a face on it and just -- disappear, see if Sherlock would notice the difference. See if the balloon makes him all red around the nose, too.

Fuck.

Squaring his jaw, he exhales deeply, with as little noise as he can manage, seeing as they have apparently broken into the woman's flat in search of the illusive photographic evidence of her sexual escapades. His knee still hurts from the tumble he took on the second out of three balconies, but it's nothing acutely worrying, might be a bit sore tomorrow, but since he doesn't exactly expect them to engage in any straining physical activity (read: sex) the next couple of days, what does it matter? Another tug at the already tight line of his jaw and he steps up next to Sherlock inside the sitting room, looking around. It's all very magazine-like. Licking his lips, John crosses his arms over his chest in the semi-darkness. ]

27.

[acuriousincident]

[ It's past midnight when he returns to 221B, having left John to get home on his own before continuing on into the city. Though he'd known it wouldn't actually amount to anything - breaking into a flat is one thing, breaking into a BDSM club catering to the rich and wealthy is very much another - he'd gone anyway, just to see. Belgravia lies in its own little nook of Westminster (a curious mismatch between title and location), not too far from the Thames and in a very anonymous-looking establishment, from an outside perspective. The bouncer by the door had simply stepped aside and allowed him entrance no question asked - clearly, he'd been told to expect him. It wouldn't normally unnerve him but there's something about Irene Adler being five steps ahead of him at all times that really, really gets under his skin in a very persistent manner.

Thus, he'd stepped inside the club, wholly prepared to be visually assaulted by yet another range of sexual practices, only to find a sitting area stretched out beneath the ow ceiling, furnished with comfortable armchairs and lit by Victorian oil lamps as well as gentle LEDs in the floor. It had looked most of all like a gentlemen's club, perhaps. Exclusive and distinctively proper. Thrown him right off his game, hadn't it, once more. Then, he'd been greeted by Gabriel Cox, the aptly named owner of the club who'd informed him calmly and pleasantly that he'd be very welcome as a paying member and that snooping around in this particular milieu simply wouldn't be an option. We value the full confidentiality of our members, he said and explained, Around here, we know what you like, so to speak. Therefor, we keep it to ourselves.

He'd offered him a drink and, much like Irene, he'd had an air to him that Sherlock had found... curiously hard to refuse. However, he'd managed - and the other man had, quite obviously, let him which felt disturbing in ways he couldn't even fathom - upon which, he'd once again... fled. Home. Stepping inside 221B had felt like a haven and he'd dropped all his clothes in the hallway, item after item strewn across the floor, before climbing into bed next to John like a drowning man who'd finally come ashore.

So here he is, now, nestled up against John's back, arms slung around his upper body. He presses his face against his neck and breathes him in, roughly, his mind completely ablaze with impressions, with ideas, with fantasies (dream, she'd said, Irene Adler - hellish, absolutely hellish). His cock is half-hard between his legs, has been since he left the club (and possibly before that, too). He's got no idea what to do with that so he just lies here, pressed up against John, thinking that another case can't come too soon. ]

[docwithablog]

[ After their very much botched attempt at breaking and entering, Sherlock did what Sherlock does which is to disappear pretty much without explanation, leaving John to make his way home on his own, hands in his pockets and shoulders up around his ears as he marched through London by night. All the bloody way home.

Once back at 221B, he'd taken a shower, made tea -- then coffee, then proceeded to drink half a bottle of quality wine before finally, around eleven o'clock, retreating to the bedroom (Sherlock's) and preparing for bed, every step of the way. Brushing his teeth, slipping into a pair of pyjamas bottoms, nothing else, bed, he's been lying awake ever since. Lots of staring at ceilings. Lots of thinking.

He doesn't care if Sherlock's into BDSM, hell, he could probably make that work just fine, John's had an occupation where he ordered people around professionally, for money, after all, but he doesn't know what to do with the thing the other man seems to have for the illusive Ms Adler. Doesn't know what to do with the way she makes Sherlock all flustered and red, yeah, John wants to be the (only) one to get to do that, please.

Please.

Well past midnight, Sherlock eventually returns. John hears him stumble up the stairs, through the sitting room, hallway, bathroom, bedroom, here. He feels him crawling into bed, slipping up behind him and pretty much nestling in against his backside. Face against the back of his neck, arms slung around his upper body, John accommodating him, but not reaching out. Their thighs aligned, their -- Oh. Sherlock's semi-erect. More half-mast than one-third, too. That's -- For God's sake, where did he go? A frown. ]

This one's -- [ He doesn't specify whether he's talking about her or her case. ] -- really got you excited, huh?

[ Blink, blink. John shifts slightly, backwards, pressure, turning his head slowly. It's not a question, it's an observation for you, Sherlock. ]

28.

[docwithablog]

[ For once, he didn't get up at six. It was closer to seven. Maybe a few minutes past. Okay, maybe it was eight, so shoot him. He'd felt completely spent, he'd needed the rest, obviously.

Then, around eight -- leaving Sherlock to sleep through this particular comedown with no medical intervention, John had got up, got dressed, gone to the grocer's to buy eggs and toast, beans and bacon (and a stack of newspapers, as per custom) and taken a couple of detours to get that special kind of juice the other man likes, tropical with pulp, really, it's disgusting and terrible for your teeth, as well as some new ginger nuts, because he's vanished them all away somehow (it's been a week since John's last purchase, mind you). Only then does he return home to 221B, it's half past ten and a late brunch is in order, he thinks.

Half an hour later, the table's been set, there's still no sign of Sherlock and John is eating beans with a fork one-handedly, reading about the newest royal scandal in the paper, the hand not busy stuffing his face keeping the pages turning, one headline to the next. They all involve Irene Adler, of course they do, though quite surprisingly she's got the monicker of "mezzo-soprano" rather than "dominatrix" and you got to wonder how she managed that. How she even managed to sneak out a great grand-niece of the queen without someone taking her head off.

That was what the pictures were for, of course. The pictures Sherlock never managed to find. Good thing he's been left on the verge of a complete coma this morning or there'd be a mood well on its way, yeah? Jesus. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ He woke up around 20 seconds ago (give or take - he's in no mood for precision here) and is currently sitting up in bed, having managed to drape himself in the sheet rather than the duvet. He's naked underneath and sticky, still, from last night. His breath smells and tastes like cock. John's, to be precise. He smacks his lips, then gets to his feet, each movement slow and borderline clumsy. His body still remembers the explosion of his orgasm, his jaw still remembers the feeling of John's cock, stretching it to its limits. And more importantly, his mind remembers, too.

How he'd... submitted.

How he'd wanted to.

Blinking, he pads over to the window and opens it, letting in the pseudo-fresh air from outside (in the middle of London? Hah) before making his way into the hallway with his sheet draped around his body like a make-shift toga. He keeps drawing a blank on any and all emotions related to the act of simply... giving in. There's no mental judgment, no Mind Palace Mycroft telling him not to be such a weak and stupid little boy. He thinks, perhaps, there might be, given time. But right now, he just feels slightly empty as well as... fucked. Very fucked, at that.

The smell of bacon and eggs and beans makes him squint into the kitchen, poking his head past the doorway first before shuffling inside the rest of the way. His eyes the paper between John's hands automatically as he heads for his chair, the content making him raise an eyebrow. He has to clear his throat to speak and even then, he sounds frankly terrible. ]

Let's hope she got the photos before they fled. Mycroft might just have an aneurism, if so. And resultant brain damage. [ Pause. A dreamy half-smile. ] Or death, even.

30.

[docwithablog]

[ First came the coke. No, that's wrong. First came the period of tentative introduction to the art of sexual domination and submission, then came the coke.

Sherlock thought he was being clever, of course, because when doesn't he? And for a couple of weeks, certainly, he was, his high not all that distinctive from his normal case-induced mania. Of course, John should have noticed, given the fact that their influx of cases was dying out slowly, but steadily, however, he was perhaps a tad too high himself on the fact that he could sometimes, just sometimes make Sherlock do what he asked in bed, although admittedly their sex life quickly hit a dry spell what with -- the cases, he thought. Meaning the coke.

At some point, the rash around Sherlock's nose gave him away and John had had -- well, you could perhaps call it a right fit, spending a couple of nights in his own room while the other man took time to consider whether he wanted to prioritise their relationship or, what, a new dusting of their sofa table. Or wherever he does his lines, bloody hell, John doesn't know, does he? Giving him plenty of time to regret not just staying willfully ignorant, Sherlock's comedown has been terrible. Mood swings, incredibly foul temper, an increasing amount of fainting spells... And finally, yesterday, John had decided that if he was going to survive this, if anyone was, really, Mrs Hudson has started just looking at him and going John, please every time she sees him, he'd run through his contacts and ended up writing an e-mail to Ingram, recalling how his parents had had a pretty nice place in Cornwall, that they all used to go to over the summer back at Barts.

My partner needs a retreat. I promise you, it's a medical emergency. If not for him, then for me. And Ingram sure treated it as such, his reply landing in John's inbox ten hours later, consisting of exactly seven words: you know where to find me, Watson.

John slaps his laptop shut and turns in his chair towards the kitchen where Sherlock's -- busy. Doing something. When he isn't doing something, he's a heap of dressing gown and long legs on the sofa, either or. John raises his voice a bit. ]

Sherlock?

[acuriousincident]

[ It's been... a hectic couple of weeks. He's not quite sure how it happened (well, the coke is easily explained - he was bored - mind-numbingly, horrifyingly bored) but these days, he's just trying to survive his come-down, one crazy burst of activity at a time. Or several, really. He's currently running at least five (5) different experiments in the flat, some confined to Mrs. Hudson's fridge (blood coagulation in toes subjected to salt water for precisely fifteen minutes as well as one in her bedroom concerning the sporadic accumulation of dust bunnies around nail clippings), others to their own (samples of streptococcus pyrogenes in petri dishes as well as a somewhat more obscure study in hair comparison) and one confined to the small bowl of water in the sink. A very curious collection of algae from the Thames, collected yesterday (? the day before?) near Island Gardens, Millwall.

He's running back and forth between them, up and down the stairs, checking for progress and setting timers. From time to time he pauses, one hand against any nearby wall, re-finding his balance as he's intermittently wobbly on his feet at the moment. It's the lack of sleep. Lack of food. Lack of everything. Very briefly, he thinks about John.

Then, John actually speaks to him from the sitting room and he startles, visibly, very nearly plunging one hand directly into the algae soup. Hm. No, it wouldn't be interesting, abort. Frowning, he glances over his shoulder in John's general direction. When he speaks, he sounds slightly out of breath: ]

Hm?

31.

[docwithablog]

[ Port Prideaux lies an hour outside of Helston, near Rinsey and they didn't arrive until well into the evening the previous day. As chance would have it -- or perhaps it was Ingram's faultless memory, who can say, they'd been given the keys to the Beach Lodge, a small cottage near the stretch of shore that falls under the manor's estate. And the very same cottage John had stayed in that summer so many, many years ago.

Though, they're not actually there now. After a morning spent driving to town and getting stocked up on supplies, they're spending the late afternoon at the beach, Sherlock having been very invested in -- well, sand. That is, of course, until he went swimming in a pair of trunks that were distractingly tight-fitting and showed off, among other things, thighs, thinner now than ever, John thinks.

While Sherlock's emerging from the waves like a rather different take on Venus, he's busy sketching. Hasn't done much drawing since he left university, granted, but he was quite good at it and the Beach Lodge made him want to buy a cheap sketchbook while they were in town. Just as the length of Sherlock's thigh muscles is making him want to use it now. He's outlining the stretch of leg from knee to hip, glancing up at the other man only intermittently from his position on a large rock sticking out from the dunes. For every step the other man comes closer, the shadows across his skin change a little.

John frowns. Doesn't try to replicate it, sticking to anatomy. Anatomy he knows. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ The sea isn't exactly benign in this area and Sherlock enjoys the resistance of it, the strong undercurrent, the subtle danger that never truly reaches him as anything but a mental acknowledgement. He's a strong swimmer and this swim has lasted the better part of an hour, his muscles trembling from exertion and his blood roaring through his veins. He thinks about coke, on and off. One moment, he misses Baker Street almost unbearably (more precisely, the small stash hidden away underneath the couch), the next it's gone. The burn. There's just the air and the smell of a rainfall, soon to descent upon them within the next couple of hours.

He wades through the sand as he steps onto the shore once more, gaze seeking out John immediately (there's nothing else to look at out here so it's just as well). He was quite insistent upon buying art supplies in town earlier today and whilst Sherlock wasn't surprised to know that he can draw, it was perhaps a bit interesting (unexpected), realising that he'd wanted to. That he... likes it.

John liking things is always such a wonder, really.

Padding over to the other man, he grabs a towel from the basket next to the rock and dries off his hair, first. Glances sideways, trying to catch a glimpse of the sketch. Then, he raises an eyebrow. ]

You don't get enough of that in our usual, three dimensions?