docwithablog | storyline one.

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storyline one.

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

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[ Oh. Well, it's taken him a while, hasn't it? Sherlock glances sideways after a moment, John's angry face taking up most of his vision in that direction in any case. With a slight shrug, he casts a quick look at the tracker. Almost there. She's stopped at an address not too far from the seaside. ]

You were out, trying and failing to pick up Coffee Shop Girl and I didn't have time to wait. [ His voice is calm, mostly unhurried. Really, John, calm down. He takes the car right, then left, following Sandringham Road through Ainsdale. ] It's not my fault you forgot your phone, John.

[ There's just a small amount of frustration in those last words, despite his outward calm. This case has been bothersome in all the most annoying, uninspiring ways since the very beginning what with too few cues, the available ones boring at best. He could probably wrap it up even without finishing this particular trip and he would, honestly, if something about the whole thing didn't... bother him. A blatant indication of sentiment which makes the whole thing even worse, really. Pissing John off is just one more thing, isn't it? He exhales, slowly, and finally just shakes his head. ]

You'll get it back in a moment. Look.

[ He points towards a house tucked away near the very end of a tiny side street. In the distance, behind dunes of sand and grass, the sea's clearly visible, flat and dark beneath the sky. The house is dark as well, except for a small window on the first floor, a thin light shining from behind the curtains. The Fiat Panda is in the drive. Everything's very quiet, like the whole area's breathing slower in the nighttime. He parks the car by the end of the road, turning off the ignition with a quick flick of his wrist. ]

[ Jesus Christ, Sherlock, he could have really used his phone at the coffee shop, having his calendar around to get a date in order would have been very helpful, wouldn't it? Instead he got a better luck next time, champ in a Scouse that sounded a lot less charming when the girl's waving off your efforts to take her out... It's not my fault you forgot it, Sherlock says, very unhelpfully. The car goes right, then left and the road they end up following seems to head straight for the sea. John blinks as the quality of the other man's voice changes, goes from calm and unbothered (completely) to taking on just an edge of frustration and what has he got to be frustrated about now? He succeeded in tracking Overstowe, didn't he, she's taken them -- somewhere, supposedly where they were meant to go all along and as they park, Sherlock turning off the engine with a quick flick of his bony wrist, they've still to be discovered by anyone inside, he assumes. No one is reacting, at least, in the darkness, the sea a quiet surface of near blackness behind a whole landscape of dunes. Beautiful in its own way.

Okay, then. Okay. Case. They will honestly need a stern talk about this, Sherlock foregoing basic respect and cracking his passwords again, but for now the case is centerstage. Sighing, deeply and pointedly, he makes one single angry gesture with his hand, before unbuckling his seatbelt and stretching out his legs, eyes seeking out the house with the slightest sign of life inside up front. They're here, then? All right. ]

Overstowe's arrived. Supposedly, she's here for Staunton?

[ John drops it for now, thank God, though Sherlock's reasonably certain they'll be talking about it on their way back to London no question. Ah well, that's a roadblock for a later date. Right now, there's Staunton. Supposedly, she's here for him, says John and yes, she is in a way. And in a way, she isn't. Sherlock gets out of the car after another beat of silence, leaving John's question hanging between them unanswered. Instead, he pulls out the first aid kit from the trunk before slamming the hatch shut again. He pockets the key and starts off towards the small house. ]

We're going to need your skills, Doctor.

[ He rarely calls John by his title, obviously, but tonight it seems fitting for more than one reason. True, John's phone was quite useful but his skills may be even more important than anything else this entire trip, if he's right in his assumptions. Perhaps he didn't entirely consider his feelings regarding the use of his phone but he's certainly considered him. Then, there's the factual matter of Staunton's predicament by proxy. A drunken brawl, they said. His face turns sterner as he hands John the kit before chiming the door bell. There's only so much you can do, really, in a situation such as this and there's no need for subterfuge any longer.

The door opens after a moment's wait. Elizabeth Overstowe stares out at them from the darkened hallway, her gaze sharp and uncompromising. She's no pushover, this woman, so they've learned and so they can see, now, as she stands guard against the fools that have been terrorizing her charge. Not him, not John, obviously. But in a car that looks similiar to every other car in Liverpool, she's bound to think the worst and nothing else. ]

Mrs. Overstowe. [ He speaks before she gets a chance to tell them off for being here at all. Her eyes narrow dangerously. ] I know you have a man upstairs in need of medical assistance. My companion is a doctor. [ He nods at John, then looks back at her. ] I appreciate the need for discretion but we are not here to cause Mr. Staunton or his friend any further suffering. [ He doesn't attempt to sugarcoat his voice, doesn't attempt to lie or manipulate, it's just the factual truth as he sees it, as it is. He watches as she fights with herself, visibly, her face contorting in the shadows and he adds, voice deepening a fraction: ] It's been too many days already, hasn't it?

[ With a weak exclamation, something between a sigh and a sob, she finally turns on her heel and heads up the stairs, leaving the door open for them and the path clear. Wordlessly, he follows, expecting John to do the same, as he does so very consistently. ]

[ Sherlock doesn't reply before getting out of the car and opening the hatch, pulling out a first aid kit that immediately sets all John's warning bells ringing. Quickly, he pushes himself out of the vehicle as well, slamming the door shut behind him and moving up next to the other man who's telling him that they're going to need his skills, Doctor, though Sherlock never calls him by his title and as if he couldn't bloody well tell, for God's sake. He keeps one eye on the kit all the way to the front door, taking it wordlessly when Sherlock hands it over in order to ring the doorbell. A certain calm descends upon him, then, familiar and frightening at the same time. He could feel used, sure, Sherlock no doubt brought him here knowing he'd need him in this specific position, but that's not what his job's about, his job's about saving people and he does that equally well, whether someone wants him to do it or not. Priorities. He's always had his straight, has John Watson.

Overstowe opens the door ajar and stares out at them, Sherlock serving her something that sounds suspiciously like the truth and although John's mostly busy scanning the hallway behind her, trying to figure out where he'll be needed, he does sneak a sideways glance at him as he says it's been too many days already, hasn't it. The woman half-sobs, half-sighs and John can feel a nauseating clenching in his gut, realising he has no idea what sort of injuries he's going to see and it's like being back in Afghanistan, called out in the field, landing with the chopper and simply having no clue, no clue whatsoever. It's always worse than you'd feared, in those cases. He knows. Yeah, he knows.

Face set, fingers tightening around the handle of the first aid kit, he follows Mrs Overstowe and Sherlock up the stairs, keeping the need to rush down only because he knows it'll make no difference at this point. If it's a matter of life and death now, it might have been decided without him already. ]

[ They ascend the stairs quickly behind Mrs. Overstowe, following her down a small and narrow hallway with bright yellow tapestry on the walls and pictures, all of them prints of classic paintings - he spots a miniature Guernica a bit further down the hall, along with something that looks like Rembrandt or, well, whichever. He's not an expert, there. Further down the hall, there's a bedroom and he steps inside, pausing and stepping aside to leave John room to pass.

Staunton's on the bed, sitting up with his back to the headboard. His friend - or well, what, boyfriend, surely - a young man roughly the same age and built, lies on his back with his head in Staunton's lap, eyes shut and chest rising and falling almost rhythmically, though there's a strain to it that might be a sign of cracked ribs. His face is a small disaster, both eyes ringed with bruises, his nose visibly broken. There's a dark bruise on his forehead, too, which looks like someone's stomped on his face.

Which they probably did.

As they enter, Staunton takes a moment to look up at them. His eyes are quiet, sad, exhausted. "I didn't mean to worry him," he says and looks down. "Overton. He said he'd sent someone looking for me but I didn't think -" He sucks in a breath. Runs one hand gently down the side of the other man's face. Elizabeth Overstowe's watching from her place by the window, her hands clenched in front of her. The room falls quiet again as the man on the bed shifts slightly, painfully. There's something wrong with his left foot, as well. ]

John.

[ Sherlock knows he doesn't have to say anything as John has perfectly functional eyes but all the same, he does it anyway, says his name, the single syllable sounding softer than usual. He watches the young man on the bed, gaze narrowing slightly as he takes in his injuries, the extent of them, telling the whole, sad story all in one. In the UK, you don't want to be subjected to hate crimes. You don't want to be that person, evidently, as it takes a small village to mobilize enough interest for anyone to do anything useful about it. And with Staunton's parents in the background, using their considerable resources to erase their son and his inclinations well and truly from the world, there's frankly very little hope at all. ]

[ Hallway, first. Bedroom, then. Sherlock steps aside, letting him pass. John doesn't come to any sudden halts, although the visual input might have triggered that reaction in any other context. Two -- young men, on the bed together, one with his head in the other's (Staunton's) lap and looking altogether a disaster, the other (Staunton) telling him that he didn't mean to worry his boss of all things. Jaw setting, John nods as Sherlock says his name, moving over to Staunton and his boyfriend, putting the first aid kit on the duvet and opening it quickly. The concussion, obvious from the bruise to his forehead, is his first, major concern, if it's been untreated for this long, he can't fix it on his own. He simply doesn't have the tools necessary. The ribs are pretty much the same deal, the boy's breath rattling nastily at every inhalation. Hate crime, it seems. And Staunton's got rich parents who can magic whatever they want away. Probably medical assistance, too. Liverpool's a football town. John still remembers Harry's brief stint in Manchester...

Licking his lips briefly, he puts on a pair of latex gloves, leaning in over the boyfriend, looking him over, Staunton watching him tiredly with his awfully dead eyes. Even if he can't do anything about the concussion and the broken ribs -- and he really needs to figure out how to get those treated, fast, he's got everything for setting the boy's nose right as well as compressions, to get the swelling of his left foot under some control. They need to x-ray it, John's best guess would be that it isn't actually broken, but there might be a minor fracture somewhere, judging by the colouration along the ankle. ]

Godfrey. [ John speaks his name slowly, the man blinking as if waking from a long slumber. ] I need you to put him down on the bed, horizontally. [ Turning slightly, he catches Overstowe's eyes, notes how she's wringing her hands hard. ] I suspect he has a concussion, so I'll need cold water, very cold, and cloths.

[ As she hurries out the door, John walks over to Sherlock, the syringe and local anesthetic he picked up on the way balanced between his hands. He prepares the syringe methodically and easily while telling the other man what to do in a low voice. The idea only occurred to him seconds ago, he has no way of knowing if it'll work, but it's all he's got. ]

George Acker, he's an old friend from Bart's, works at the Navy base in Liverpool. I want you to call him and say I'm finally calling in the favour he owes me. [ The bed creaks behind them. John glances up from his work with the anesthetic, catching Sherlock's eyes. ] Give him the address and tell him to bring paramedics. Something that can do on-scene x-rays, too. [ A pause, after which he adds, before turning on his heel and returning to the bed: ] Thank you.

[ John springs into action and Sherlock watches him curiously, noting the change in his demeanour, the way he slips into his professional mode so smoothly he can't even pinpoint the exact point of transition. It becomes blatantly evident that the other man's used to the battlefield in way Sherlock will never truly understand; it's remarkable, the way he simply assesses the situation and acts, quickly, keeping a level tone of voice and steady (always steady, it seems) hands. Staunton moves as in a trance, giving John access to the other man while Elizabeth Overstowe leaves for cloths and water, looking like a woman on the most important mission in her entire, lengthy life.

John in this state of mind. It's... well, yes.

It's something.

Feeling oddly in excess (and slightly heated around the ears which is neither here nor there), Sherlock draws away a bit, about to dig up his phone from his pocket and text Overton when John glances up from fixing a syringe. He looks like he'd hold steady even in the midst of a storm. Sherlock meets his eyes, takes in his words and nods, realising only as he makes his way to the door that John's basically given him an order. Moreover, he's rushing to obey. But then again, he thinks as he looks up the relevant details online, there's nothing else for him to do at this point in time. This particular drama isn't his, even if he's brought the solution. Instead, the final coda belongs to John and Sherlock leaves him to it, something twisting in his chest while he taps in a number and dials up. ]

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