docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ ... John certainly isn't looking at the pasta screws, is he? Sherlock's jaw tightens just as his skin heats up again; Christ, stay focused! Don't think about John's lips or his fingers or the way it feels when he -- stop. Stop. He pushes his chair back, its legs scraping loudly against the floor and gets to his feet, keeping his hands stuck in his pockets as he paces backwards, then forwards, then backwards. The facts. Of. The Case. ]

Yes, that's exactly what I should do, were I a ballerina in need of a chance and slightly too stupid to achieve it any other way. [ He flaps a hand in John's general direction. ] Cause injuries, make it look like an accident - but murder? Premeditated, even? [ He shakes his head. Looks at John's mouth briefly before tearing his gaze away. Focus. ] We need more data, John. They haven't cancelled the show this afternoon, I say we join them backstage for the run-through and keep our eyes open.

[ A beat. Then, he checks the time on his phone - several hours left, good, that's enough. ]

Seeing as you've worked in this milieu before - if not a fellow dancer, who would've been the last person to talk to her before she went on stage?

[ At least Sherlock isn't just saying it out loud this time, if nothing else that affords John a minimum of dignity.

There might even be a moment, right before the man checks his phone, attention obviously called back to the matters of the case, where Sherlock gives his face a look, making John raise an eyebrow at him. A small one, he can't exactly afford much of an attitude right now with how he keeps thinking about shagging like a hormone-ridden teenager. Christ, he's forty years old! Get a grip, man. John pushes the plate off to the side.

Not to be left behind, which is the very likely risk you run when you're around Sherlock Holmes, especially when he's deduced that you're thinking about him naked and he'll have none of it, John gets to his feet as well, leaving the rest of his pasta salad behind, unfinished. Okay, one can hope they won't go on a wild goose chase for the next couple of hours.

Seeing as you've worked in this milieu before, says Sherlock.

Well, maybe not a wild goose chase, then, if that's the person Sherlock's looking for. They should, if all works out, be right here at the theatre. John licks his bottom lip once, pushing the remnants of his thoughts from before aside and glancing towards the exit, thinking out loud: ]

It's a small company, but they'll probably have at least one dresser. Depending on the costume-situation of the performance, they could have talked to Alice minutes prior to her death.

[ John pushes the plate aside and gets to his feet. The mood changes, instantly. Sherlock looks him over briefly - ready, yes, totally at work as he should be, it's fine, they're both fine - before nodding once, curtly. ]

All right.

[ He gets out his phone and texts Russell (need to talk to your dresser -sh) before heading towards the entrance. As far as murder cases go, this is interesting in the sense that it could progress to a double murder within long if his theory is right. It's boring, though, for all its similarities to a previous case, quite notorious. Scandalous, really, that the Met hasn't even made the attempt to draw any parallels here. Copy cats, he thinks, feeling a twinge of disgust. So unimaginative. At least it isn't Jack the Ripper this time around. Sherlock flat-out refuses to deal with those, it's like listening to a song consisting of the same three chords again and again and again.

Yes, quite an easy case to solve which is probably fortunate in its own right, considering the utter distraction of John thinking about sex in his general vicinity. He strides onwards, leaving the other man to follow in his wake. ]

storyline one.

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