Sherlock Holmes

[roleplayifconvenient]

Making bail.

[marymwatson-blog]

Mary listened, expression troubled though not necessarily surprised. John had taken a lot of criticism and insults over the past years and Mary knew how much effort it had taken him to shoulder through it. Apparently, John could manage only up to the point where abuse was happening to Sherlock right in front of him before his restraint gave out.

Mary nodded during the brief silence, digesting the information more than agreeing with anything. The fact that John had lost control was still unnerving, but it certainly made sense under these circumstances. Mary noticed the uneasiness in Sherlock’s expression, and when he next spoke, the shift to something resembling a small smile. Mary was struck with the importance of the situation at that moment.

Perhaps this was something that needed to happen. John needed to let out that pent up frustration, and though perhaps it sounded strange, maybe Sherlock needed to know that John still had his back in that way. Mary didn’t approve of John’s actions, but the circumstances dulled the disappointment to something reluctant and more easily understood. 

“I suppose, all things considered, there could have been worse reasons to be called down here to bail him out,” She said with a sigh and a subtle, understanding smile, finally untwisting her hands and stuffing them in her pockets. “Thanks for letting me know what’s going on. I guess…” She hesitated just a little, uncertain if her words would be appreciated but then decided to continue with a tentative smile, “I guess things are slowly falling back into place for you two. From the stories John told me, this seems to be something that would have happened in the past.”

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock smiled, and relaxed a little at Mary's hesitant acceptance of the situation. "Well, he's not been arrested for assault before. Wait, no." Sherlock paused briefly, fact-checking. "He's never been to jail for assault before." He nodded that time, technically correct.

"Before... I found healthier ways of dealing with it. With his stress, be it PTSD or otherwise. It wasn't perfect, but it helped him. Just, don't tell him I actively worked as his undercover therapist, will you?" He chuckled quietly, blushing slightly. "I don't think I'd ever live it down. We were just..." Sherlock paused, the smile falling away as a more serious air took over. "We were good for each other, I think. I know he was good for me." He let his gaze drop to the concrete beneath them, incidentally collecting data from the toes Mary's shoes.

His chest lurched at the memories the conversation with Mary had brought to the fore. Quickly he felt himself sinking, as if drowning in those memories, overtaken briefly by what it was, and all the potential of what it could have been (if only things were different). He shook himself out of it, walling up that portion of his life once more; this was not the time, the place, nor the company.

Sherlock looked back up at Mary, calm and confident as ever. "You should go inside. Paperwork in triplicate and all." He offered a smile; unemotive, purely gestural. "I should head home. It was good to see you again, Mary." Proffering his hand for her to shake, he realised how obviously quickly the conversation changed from the words she'd spoken, to the thoughts in his head. Probably rude, to leave so quickly after meeting again. Still, it was either leave or... reveal far too much. Not like he hadn't already.

[roleplayifconvenient]

Making bail.

[marymwatson-blog]

Mary walked quickly around the corner of the building and toward the front door, gnawing on her lower lip. She didn’t have all the details, but what she did have was enough to have her nervous and verging on frustrated tears. She caught the scent of cigarette smoke on the air and looked up from the ground to see Sherlock stepping away from the wall and toward her.

“Sherlock,” Mary started but faltered as the man provided her with immediate information. Mary’s chest tightened in concern at the mention of lawyers and paperwork. Somehow she’d held out hope until now that this was all just a misunderstanding. She dropped her gaze again and twisted her hands together until her forearms started to ache.

“Oh, okay.” She nodded at the bit of information but didn’t know what else to say to it, uncertainty stilling her tongue. Sherlock’s shift in tone to something less confident drew Mary’s gaze back to his face. He looked uncomfortable and Mary’s concern deepened, but her need for understanding finally spurred her tongue.

“What happened, Sherlock? They wouldn’t tell me details over the phone. John got in fight?”

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock shifted awkwardly for a moment, but regained his composure quickly. "Well, not a 'fight', exactly. He certainly wasn't looking for one. We were at the bar; one of the other patrons started... commenting about us. Then he recognised me. Things got... heated. He took a swing at me, I ended up getting thrown into a pile of chairs. Thus this," he paused, indicating to the staunched cut near his hairline from one of the plastic chairs.

"While I was down, John... stepped in. You know John suffered, while I was away. After after I came back. Some of what the man said, it cut deep. John's been hearing it for years, holding back from reacting every time. This time he didn't hold back. The final straw, so to speak."

Pausing again, Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, comfortable enough with Mary not to need to hide himself as much as he usually would.

"The man was drunk, abusive. He threw the first punch. John was..." He stopped again, a faint smiling curling a the edges of his lips. "He was defending my honour. As well as releasing a few years of anger upon the face of an idiot."

[roleplayifconvenient]

Making bail.

Sherlock stood outside the police station, dragging deeply on his cigarette. He'd been in the interview room for just over half an hour, repeatedly answering the same few questions over and over. Finally they'd set him loose, only for him to take up residence on the footpath outside. It wouldn't do to leave John on his own; if he couldn't be in there with him, then he'd wait out here, instead.

Mycroft had responded to his text as he'd expected, sending 'round one of his best lawyers (though not the one Sherlock had used in court; that would give an impression John would not benefit from) instead of coming himself. For the best, for everyone. It meant, of course, that Sherlock was now standing on a street corner, leaning against the polished stone wall of the police station building, breathing out smoke and fog like a thin, black-jacketed dragon.

They can't keep questioning him for too much longer, surely...

He slipped into deep thought for a while, hand and lips still performing the motions of smoking but his mind was elsewhere, replaying the evening in all it's glory. It was a good night, all told. It was comforting, probably far more than it should be. Not just that John would (still) protect him to the death, but that John would go too far.

John was a good man. Is a good man, and that hadn't changed, just because he'd nearly beaten a man to death on a bar room floor. His actions didn't dictate whether or not he was 'good'; he simply was.

If that's how it worked for John, then maybe there was hope for...

Sherlock was ripped from his reverie at the sound of familiar footfalls on concrete - Mary. He refocused his eyes, pushing off from the building and standing upright as he nodded to her in greeting while she closed the distance between them.

"One of Mycroft's lawyers is with him. He's still in questioning, but he should be out soon enough. Another 20 minutes at most; you can probably use most of that filling out the paperwork. They like it in triplicate and refuse to use carbon paper." He sighed, bored by the mere description of the paperwork involved.

"Apologies that they had to wake you," he said with some degree of awkwardness, more comfortable with the boring chat of this end of the legal process than facing the wife of the man who'd now been arrested largely because of Sherlock's own existence.

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[jwatson-md]

John was a man possessed - he felt actual hatredtowards this stranger; this stranger who was, in his eyes, the very object of his torment. As though all those years of agonising mental pain had been made human, and he could finally have his revenge.

Red with blinding fury, he tore into the man beneath him; yelling and swearing as he repeatedly stuck his face, chest and stomach. The crowd that had gathered around were unsure whether to look on with jest at this ‘pub brawl’ or gasp with horror as the man appeared to go limp under John. At first, he was heedless to Sherlock’s instructions. A twinge of realisation, as well as an uncomfortably tight hand on his shoulder, was felt and appeared to give John newly exercised ‘control’ over his actions.

There was a breathless pause as John yielded and leant away from his target, with stunned silence. The man, in fact, was not dead - nor was he unconscious, as he spluttered a bloody cough and rolled onto his side. With this unstable restraint, John rose to his feet, and immediately looked to Sherlock.

During the few moments that elapsed between them, he scarcely blinked as he continued to huff out his breath, as though exhausted. No longer in a mood of anger, but agitation; showing annoyance, pain, and a certain restless pride. Their mutual observation lasted a moment or two longer, at the end of which, police sirens could be heard approaching.

[roleplayifconvenient]

John was looking into his soul.

At least, that's what it felt like. If indeed he was, and if Sherlock even had one, were highly debatable facts. For now, though, it felt like the entire world consisted of John's eyes, dark but irrepressibly blue, steeped in hope and honesty which by all reasonable estimation should have been extinguished years ago, even when his face was drawn haggard with weariness and pain.

How do you manage it, John? After all of this...

The increased volume of the police sirens broke his attention, and he was pulled from the (ridiculously romaticised) moment to look around them, almost fully encircled now by the other bar patrons. Such an odd couple they made, no less by Sherlock's utter calm and the blood (both his and the drunkard's) dripping lazily from John's fingertips at his side.

"You'll be arrested in just under ninety seconds," he dictated softly to John, just above a whisper, their faces still close enough for John to hear without the entire pub listening in. "You'll make bail, though."

The door of the pub opened roughly, but the officer paused as the crowd parted for him, John and Sherlock standing stock-still and apparently calm while the man (with a broken nose, cheekbone, split lip, split eyebrow and at least two loose teeth; John doesn't love you, I see...) staggered to his feet, rage in his eyes.

"It was 'im! The short fucker!" One of the idiot's friends, apparently, shouting out to the police officer as he stepped forward. The officer raised a hand to silence the 'witness', instead coming to a stop shortly before John and Sherlock. After a quick evaluation, he raised his chin at John, drawing out his handcuffs from the plastic holder clipped to his belt. "I'm sure this comes to no surprise to you, but I'm going to have to arrest you with assault occasioning actual bodily harm. Turn around, if you wouldn't mind."

Sherlock successfully held his tongue while John turned complacently, allowing the officer to cuff him without resistance. He glared unabashedly at both the bleeding wanker and his friends, but returned his face to 'concerned calm' when the officer drew his attention.

"You'll have to come too, sir. Witness and all." Sherlock nodded, relaxing a little; at least that meant he'd share the ride with John. He was, oddly enough after all these years, still rather phobic about riding in police cars. At least John's calming influence should help somewhat with that.

The policeman, satisfied that John would remain where he was, turned the the publican, notifying that another officer was on his way and would take statements, and that an ambulance had been called for the victim of the assault. (Sherlock did scoff at the use of the word 'victim', but quieted after a glare from John, keeping to himself the fact that John had smirked at it first.)

Once the next police car had arrived, John and Sherlock were summarily walked to the police car, their calm conduct meaning that at least John wasn't literally thrown into the back seat. Sherlock, hands unbound, took the time before the car started moving to text Mycroft with his phone still in his pocket, grateful for the bored nights he'd used to teach himself to text 'blind'.

"Well..." Sherlock said after a rather long silence, the police car's interior making him anxious but the company keeping it from boiling over into panic, "this was certainly an interesting night out."

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[jwatson-md]

John was so astonished at the sudden quickness of the man that, at first, he could not properly register a reaction. He broke away upon the first punch being thrown and sort of .. hung back, standing motionless. Though, his brows were knitted in deep attention, and his mouth had begun to assume a rather cross expression, as astonishment quickly made way for provoked anger.

Already irritated by the attempted first hit, he felt his cheeks burn as the brute, furious that his target has managed to dodge the punch, grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s lapel and shoved him backwards - hard, sending him crashing into a heap of messily stacked chairs. Before the man could return to his friends in triumph, John jostled him by the shoulder and punched him with enough force to make his already-unbalanced person fall down. The jeering drunks at the bar were startled into silence, staring at the fallen man; lying flat on his back and complaining of a possibly broken nose.

But before the surprised drunk could finished his sentence, John returned to him, with tightly clenched fists and eyes flared with long built-up anger. All the years of putting up with it, from the papers and the people that read them, finally caught up with him. He hit the man again; and again, and again, each with as much force as the last. Strained cries of “Get him off! Fuckin’ get off!” filled the whole pub.

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock crashed hard into the stacks of chairs, temporarily disoriented by the impact of skull against hard plastic. After a couple of seconds he regained his composure, getting back to his feet with just a slight sense of dizziness.

It took only a moment to see what was happening, John in full 'soldier' mode, mercilessly pounding his fists into the man beneath him. In a world of his own for a short while, Sherlock almost smiled; despite the time apart and everything that had changed irreparably, John was still willing to defend him. It was A Study in Pink, 2.0.

He didn't smile, though, as quite quickly came the revelation that John would -actually- kill this man if given the choice, and getting out of this murder charge would be far more difficult than just throwing a gun into a river. As sweet (is that the wrong word?) as the demonstration of affection(?) was, John going to prison for him wasn't part of the reunion plan. It might be possible to get it written off as an effect of the PTSD, but even then...

It wasn't worth the risk, as satisfying as it would be to continue to watch the drunken idiot's cheekbone pulverise under John's fist.

"John. John, you need to stop." He spoke a little too quietly; certainly too quietly for the enraged army doctor to notice. Stepping forward, he put a firm hand on John's shoulder, squeezing at the joint just hard enough to hurt slightly, standing back far enough to avoid getting hit himself in John's flurry.

"John. Stop."

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[jwatson-md]

In no time at all, John felt himself becoming impatient with the insistent man. Deliberately, the drunk rigidly held himself in front of them (rather, in front of Sherlock), obstructing their exit. Their attempts to softly edge around him were useless, he remained unmoved and the encouraging jeers of his drinking companions were easily heard in the near-distance.

The man laughed with them, and spoke into Sherlock’s face, slovenly spraying him with boozy spittle. “I knew it was you. The faker! The fucking ‘genius’, ay?”

Gloomily debating within himself, John decided to try and wake the man back into a condition less hostile, at least until he and Sherlock could make a swift exit. John’s voice broke in, with certain restraint and caution. “Look, we don’t want any trouble.”

/Just piss off. Had enough of you lot./

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock's mouth tightened into a thin line, his face tensing along with the rest of his body. John's words were completely useless, and almost entirely ignored by the drunkard before them. Sherlock raised his chin, giving up on diplomacy, instead adopting a façade of authority, verging on silently aggressive in his posture.

"The 'fucking genius', yes," he repeated, his words calm but his eyes narrowed, flicking across the other man's body, watching for moments to indicate the next step in their encounter. "Is there something I can help you with? The number for A.A., perhaps?" A stab at the man's alcoholism was juvenile, but reasonably harmless; it was obvious the situation would come to a head, and Sherlock would much rather it at least partially be on his terms. Better to face the aggressor front-on, rather than having a bottle thrown at his head while trying to leave.

He saw the man's shoulder shift back slightly, the last few years at least having given him more than enough practice in close combat. Sherlock dodged, leaning to the back left as the man took a swing, the calloused fist missing his jaw by a few inches. Regaining his balance, Sherlock righted himself, his posture defensive as he watched again, the stranger on front of him merely aggravated by missing his first hit.

[sergeantdonovan-blog]

Nice seeing you again, "old friend"

[sergeantdonovan-blog]

She was relieved when Sherlock chose to clarify what happened rather than take offence at her curiosity. Sally had to admit, it sounded quite fantastical; the idea of two geniuses playing some sort of elaborate large scale mind game, but if it were to happen to anybody, then of course it would’ve been Sherlock Holmes.

When Sherlock finally finished speaking, Sally took another sip of her coffee, thoughtfully processing his words. “It’s… a lot to take in,” she admitted, her tone completely neutral. She wasn’t sure how to feel about it all. Several phrases jumped out at her, running through her head.

We were both bored and unrivalled… the contracts didn’t expire when I died… I sought them out… I’d broken my part of the deal… he just wanted me to burn…

There was one in particular that Sally could not ignore:

The only option… …was to make sure there was no-one left to fulfill the order.

Sally wasn’t stupid, she understood the meaning behind that evasive statement. She was also certain Sherlock knew she’d pick up on it, and was probably expecting a reaction. What her response would be, however, Sally had no idea. She had spent the entire morning reacting to a landslide of new information, it was like emotional whiplash. The fact that Sherlock had… (she resolutely avoided the ‘m’ word, even in her own head) taken things into his own hands -so to speak- was just another thing she would spend hours brooding over and be no less lost about.

She finished off the last of her coffee and glanced up at the clock behind the counter. Greg was going to be livid. Thinking of him reminded Sally of the torture, and she winced. It was telling that she’d be more troubled over the deaths of three criminals she’d never even met (and knowing Sherlock’s methods, was likely to never hear of again) than the torture of three two people she knew.

“Is… is Doctor Watson okay? I haven’t seen him since, well… I figure it would be better to ask you. And his sister too, of course.” Sally had never been close to John, or regarded him particularly favourably, but she had to admit she was at least concerned over his well being. He was undeniably a good man; undeserving of the things he’d experienced, and not for the first time Sally wondered what it was about Sherlock that made people willingly choose to put up with him and everything that came with being associated with him.

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock played with his drained coffee cup with his good hand, waiting with a surprising deal of patience for Sally to filter the information he'd given her. It was quite a while later before she spoke again, and he looked up, almost seeming surprised at the break in the silence.

"John is... doing better. I don't know about Harry; John hasn't mentioned her. John has suffered, but he's recovering. He has Mary now, after all. She helps him."

It was difficult to keep a level tone when talking about John's wife. They'd only met twice, both under tense circumstances. At this stage it was still uncertain if there would ever be any kind of cohesion between the three (or four, if you count Oliver) of them. It was difficult, after all, not to see Mary as not only his replacement, but an upgrade. 

Looking up at Sally's expression, the volume of mixed emotions playing subtly over her features, he motioned with one hand, as if waving her off. "You'll be well over half an hour late by the time you get to work. Just tell Lestrade you ran into me on the way to work; he'll be too busy worrying about how we interacted to care about your tardiness."

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[jwatson-md]

A profound ‘quiet’ reigned over (save for the background murmurs of pub ambiance) as John draped his arm around his friend and drew him close. It was in quiet moments like these that he thought to himself; all that time so solitary, and with dejected consciousness, John thought he had become used to it. He hadn’t, he really hadn’t. He felt those old, depressed spirits with a strange pang as he inclined his head, just slightly, into Sherlock’s with a small nasal sigh.

Their quiet was, however, broken in on by unkind slurring coming from a man on the other side of the bar. John became distracted from his thoughts, and began to regard the drunk without looking him. Whatever he thought, John would not humour him. He merely drew Sherlock a little close to utter something to him as discreetly as possible, though the action was noticeable to the drunk and his rabble of equally-intoxicated friends.

“Oi!” He called to them. “It’s you, innit?”

Pushing himself out of this temporarily awkward corner, John’s arm fell away and he straightened one leg from the stool; he had his own reasons for not confronting the situation directly, it was not the first time that John had encountered a less than favourable member of the public. He leaned in. “Come on, we’ll go somewhere else.”

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, opening them only when John began to move. The clear ring of recognition in the stranger's voice - and not the pleasant recognition of seeing someone youhopedto see - was worse than the vague and unimaginative insults he'd used previously. He nodded slightly at John's suggestion, standing up only to see the drunken stranger stand at the same time, facing them straight-on, cheeks flushed red with excessive alcohol consumption.

Employed as a data analyst, technical firm in South London, married, no children. Drinks here regularly, and always to excess. Is rubbish at darts.

Feels personally hard-done-by by me, and John, to a lesser extent. Knows nothing but the news, enjoys the conspiracy theory angle often presented by right-wing media.

History of violence.

Sherlock nodded again, deigning to say nothing once again, the clear lack of regard in for public displays of aggression a cause for concern.

"We're leaving," he said finally, calmly, to the man, who shifted his weight, sizing Sherlock up.

The air grew tense.

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[jwatson-md]

Upon John’s face fell a look of devoted attention, as Sherlock detailed his dreads and miseries. Very real (and shared) concerns that John could not brush away for him, but he could do Sherlock the favour of listening - something that he had not a lot of that year, and instead of trying to ‘relate’ to his position, John instead offered his silent understandings; nodding occasionally, and never removing his line of sight.

However, he had to tightly purse his lips when Sherlock began to belittle himself.

The first days after Sherlock’s ‘death’ had not been the worst. Life had come to a standstill, had stopped dead with the sudden shock that had thrown everything out of gear. John remembered the letters of anger and accusation, and the very rare letters of condolence sent by well-meaning fans of the blog. He still had them, somewhere in his attic. After painful months, Sherlock’s memory slowly became something of an anodyne, rather than something that hurt too much to think about. That was when John started speaking to Mary about him, and telling her stories of their cases.

For a brief amount of time, John was soothed. Attempting to forget only added to the initial pain - he needed to have Sherlock in his life. Sherlock, who had saved his life in more ways than one. Sherlock .. who was not dead.

At first, John said nothing, as he felt there was little he needed to say. His lips remained firmly pressed together, at though in thought, and he bent his neck with a small, resigning sigh. With feelings of sorrow and sympathy, he raised his arm and drew it over Sherlock’s back, his hand stopping on the man’s waist; there was a moment of delicate hesitation before John settled the weight of his arm properly.

“You’re needed here first.” He uttered with a tremulous little smile, his head bowed mere inches from Sherlock’s. ”Hell will have to wait.” 

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock's skin twitched at the pressure on his back, but he calmed quickly, relaxing into the touch as John spoke. He chuckled under his breath, leaning his head to the side to lean against John's. It was an odd display, heads resting together, John's arm draped around his waist; it wasn't romantic - it never was between them (except that one time, although that would apparently never be mentioned again, especially not by the light of day) - but a display of camaraderie at least, the deepest of loves at most. No matter how much their relationship had changed, how much -they- had changed, their relationship (despite all of Sherlock's fears) was a world unto itself. 

Eyes closed, Sherlock's attention was momentarily dragged from the partial embrace by a muffled muttering from a few seats away, undiscerning words about sexual orientation from a man who'd drunk far too much already. Sherlock contemplated moving, but in the end didn't bother; it was John's job to defend his own sexuality, and the comfort was too pleasant to shrug away from just yet.

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[jwatson-md]

At Sherlock’s immediate dismissal to his parlance, John blinked and felt something sink in his gut. Trying to ‘connect’ had not helped matters; though it settled a momentary feeling of discomfort between them, it also awakened a sincere compassion in John, who poised his glass just before his lips and glanced at Sherlock curiously. “Sometimes I wonder if you hear yourself.” 

John did not speak to mock him. Rather, he spoke the words with a certain saddened affection, and waited a moment before adding, ”I don’t know what exactly you went through, while you were away. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.” He set the glass down without draining anything from it. “What I do know is that you’re here now, still very much existing. Which is a bit of a blessing after all we went through.”

It was an adjustment, for all parties involved. Over the course of a year, John had seen his old friend (that he had mourned with such devastation) ‘rise from the dead’. Then that old friend went from ‘alive’, to ‘back-stabbing pretender’, to faithful but very damaged human being. To stop adjusting now would be to completely give up on their friendship.

“You do trust me when I say that I’m not just doing this to repay you?”

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock swallowed,  sighing softly before taking a small sip of his juice. He deigned not to reply to the first few statements, instead remaining silent in his thoughts until asked a direct question.

"I try to," he said, his voice returning to a softer state, the venom gone for now. "It's certainly a nice idea," Sherlock added with a half shrug and a small but fast-fading smile. "It's simply that you needed me last time. Even when you couldn't stand me, you needed me. When I was away, you needed me, even if you didn't know it, know what I was doing or why. Now..." He sighed again, not angry by any means, but emotionally deflated. "Now I don't have anything to offer. I'm getting some work again finally, but that hardly matters as you're home with Ollie more often than not. Moriarty and Co know I'm alive, so I can't do anything to keep you safe until they make their next move. Hell, I... I couldn't even keep you safe last time." His face crumpled at the memory despite his best attempt at keeping it tempered down, images flashing across his eyelids as his eyes fell closed - the photo sent to his phone of his friends tied to chairs, the surgical photos used as evidence in the court room, the sight of John struggling to walk after he left the hospital, his freshly reconnected patella making his limp worse than ever and all too genuine, the scars, now hidden under layers of clothing but far too clear in Sherlock's mind's eye.

"John, I abandoned you, and spent three years away to try to keep you safe. And it wasn't enough." His chin wrinkled as he drew his lips into a tight straight line, eyes glaring accusingly at his fingers wrapped too-tight around the almost empty glass on the bar. Wracked with guilt, his voice trembled slightly as he continued to speak after a few seconds' pause. "Exactly what good am I to anyone? The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, after all." He laughed coldly, self-depreciating. "Who would have thought that 'good intentions' would be my downfall. Certainly never saw that coming before you."

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[jwatson-md]

As Sherlock spoke, John did not deny a word he said; even if he did attempt to, Sherlock would not believe him. Even the best of men could be contentious at times. His lips parted, and he breathed thinly through them with eyes fastened upon the man, waiting for him to go on. His voice was as sad and as bitter as it had been two weeks ago, and since then John felt that Sherlock had indulged in his ability to suffer in silence.

For all he knew, this could be the first time that Sherlock had spoken aloud since the dinner.

“Sherlock, you’re talking to me as if I don’t know what that’s like.” John responded, blank and quiet. “Leaving everything behind, going somewhere strange, then coming home and feeling like you’ve left yourself behind somewhere.”

He then sank his head slightly, arms crossed over the counter, as he secluded his voice to a strange sort of utterance. “When I came back from Afghanistan, I barely felt human.” John looked somewhat preoccupied for a moment. “We’re different people now, Sherlock. But I’m still your friend, even if you do still think that I’m doing this out of some kind of sympathy.” He did not speak with resentment or anger, those feelings had quelled. There was, however, a certain solemness.

“We just need to .. adjust.”

[roleplayifconvenient]

"You don't know what it's like, John," Sherlock said harshly, more coldly than he'd meant to. "Don't pretend that our experiences are the same, don't you dare." His mouth drew into a taught line, and he bit the inside of his lip to keep from saying anything more. He'd not detailed his experiences 'abroad' for a reason, and he certainly wasn't going to start now, not here. 

After a few moments, he sighed, as if suddenly exhausted. "'Adjust'..."

"When we met... There was this hole in you. This big... expanse of nothing, where you'd lost part of yourself. I don't pretend to understand how or why, but I filled it. You needed me, just as much as I needed you. Now... You have everything you wanted. And you miss what we had, but what we had doesn't exist anymore. I don't know how much of me exists anymore, either." 

His head sank, eyes closing quickly as he forced himself to banish everything that was trying to quell up in him and spill from his throat. 

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[jwatson-md]

“It’s alright.” John gave a mingled shrug. “I like Coke.”

When Sherlock responded with apparently expressed resentment, John barely reacted; careful to say nothing that might harm the nature of his asking. Though the man seemed to consent, and began his analysis of Mary (along with a surprisingly sensitive point of their relationship). John supplied him with a faint gleam of appreciation and a string of acknowledging nods, then a final one as Sherlock closed his answer. “I had to ask, Sherlock. You always did have an opinion of my girlfriends.”

He had meant to sound lightly jesting, in a bid to brighten the atmosphere. But something in him clicked, and the smile was quickly wiped from his face, as he remembered a crucial fact; Sherlock had never seemed to like his girlfriends, and now John knew why. /Shouldn’t have said that. Idiot./

Hiding his remorse as best he could, John imitated a quick smile and continued to speak. “I was just .. you know, checking. Seeing if you were thinking the same way as two weeks ago.” A more serious note struck John’s voice then. “About .. well, feeling like you don’t fit into it.”

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock frowned slightly at the 'opinion' comment, and he  forced himself to remain neutral as John's expression dropped. "I didn't dislike them because I wanted you all to myself, John. They were simply poor choices in mate." His expression hardened slightly, and he stared intently at his glass of juice. "Anyway, I'm a little late to interfere with things with Mary, even if I wanted to. I would have burst in dramatically at the wedding, but I'm afraid I was indisposed." He forced a smile but it fell short, the subject far heavier than he'd readied himself for. Should have gone for a pint...

He shrugged a little at the second part of John's speech, keeping quiet for a few moments and taking a mouthful of orange juice before replying. "Of course I don't fit." Sherlock laughed bitterly again; a short, sharp sound dryly leaving his lips. "I don't even fit in in London any more, John. Let alone in your life. Wife, son, dog, mortgage. And I know you've said you'll find a way to make it work. It's a nice idea. I appreciate the sentiment."

With a soft sigh, he turned the class around with his fingertips, focusing on it in order to try to push other things aside to be dealt with later.

It didn't work.

"I regret coming back sometimes," he admitted quietly, brows drawn together as he looked down at his fingers around the glass, for all intents and purposes talking to himself. "When I was away, all I could think about was coming back. Coming home. But it's... It's not 'home', now. No-where is, or at least I've changed too much to recognise it."

He paused, lost in his thoughts for a moment.

"This time last year, I was staying in the attic of an abandoned house on the southern border of Hungary, daydreaming of London. Now... Now I walk the streets of London, and I have no dreams at all. It's just grey."

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

[jwatson-md]

“I don’t really have a ‘usual’.” John replied, his tone oddly bright. These days at least, he did not make a habit out of drinking publicly or much at all, beyond special occasions. Baring witness to some of his sister’s drunken episodes had put paid to that. The last time he had been to a pub, it had been with Lestrade. Even then, John only downed one pint - he had not stayed long enough for a second.

With a light of acknowledgement, he recalled a piece of information he had gained when they had last met - Sherlock did not drink, at all. When approached by barstaff, John spoke across the bar with a finely-tuned smile. “Coke and an orange juice, please. No ice.”

Once again, he insisted upon paying, through silently sliding a five-pound note across the counter as their drinks were given to them.

They sat quietly for a few short moments, drinks in-hand. Then, after a further few seconds of engaging hesitation, John polished a section of the glass off, set it down and gave voice to something that had been sitting on the tip of his tongue. “Is it okay if I ask you something?” He passed Sherlock a look, instinctively calm. “When you came over for dinner, what did you think of Mary?”

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John's order, but said nothing until after the barman had moved on. "You are allowed to drink, you know. You aren't babysitting an alcoholic, John. I just choose not to partake."

At John's question, Sherlock let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "You're asking me?" he asked, somewhat incredulous. (After what I told you that night, after...)

He thought for a few seconds, choosing his words carefully. "She's soft, unless she absolutely needs to be forceful. She gives you vast amounts of personal space, and respects your privacy. She loves you, but not selfishly. And she has grown to love you, even if your beginnings together were less than healthy." He stopped, biting his bottom lip slightly as he thought, mulling over how to finish. "It's a little late late to ask for my blessing, but I can understand why you love her. She's good for you."

'She's the diametric opposite of me' went unsaid.

[jwatson-md]

A Night on the Tiles

As their cab pulled up to the curbed pavement, John sat forward, ten-pound note already in-hand.

“Here, I’ll get it.” He said vaguely from the bottom of his throat, passing the money to the driver without a moment’s hesitation. A friendly (if insistent) gesture on his part, as he knew that Sherlock did not have much money to his name at the moment. Upon receiving a handful of jingled change, the two men exited the cab. Crossing the pavement, they walked by a few persons, drunk and sober alike; some fiddling with their mobile phones and others standing surrounded by cigarette smoke. Typical street-loiterers that could often be found outside a London pub.

To his own surprise, Sherlock had accepted when John suggested having a casual night out. It would be their first in years, and he was moreso surprised when the man consented to something as ‘boring’ as a drink in the pub. It felt like an accomplishment, especially after the dinner with Mary two weeks prior. With tonight was the next stage - a lighter yet essential part of their progress; no third-party, just two friends going out for a drink.

Approaching the bar, he glanced at Sherlock and asked, “What are you having?”

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock sat on the barstool as John spoke, glancing around the room to gather his bearings before replying. "Orange juice, thankyou. No ice." He shrugged off his overcoat, folding it in half before laying it empty seat to his left.

The taxi ride to the pub had been odd. Something whichshouldhave felt so familiar, so very second nature to the pair of them, had felt almost foreign. It had been saddening, to sit in a taxi, just like they used to, but to still feel that distance; the breadth of years and experiences not shared.

When John had asked him to join him on a night out, Sherlock had been surprised, so say the least. The dinner had gone moderately well, but after almost a fortnight without contact, Sherlock had taken to assuming the worst. When John had extrapolated - 'to a pub' - Sherlock had been surprised a second time, but had accepted despite himself.

Now, sitting here, long legs tucked awkwardly against the bar, he began to worry anew. What would they talk about? Surely they wouldn't just discuss the football match currently being replayed silently on the screen above the hard liquor selection; there was no point in coming at all if it would only result in feigned smalltalk and pleasantries, and John knew as much.

Still, with all concerned pressed aside, Sherlock hoped the evening out would be worthwhile, even positive. He and John still had so very much ground to cover, in emotional connection as well as raw data.

"This isn't your usual, is it? It's not the one you used to come to with Lestrade, back in the day. The smell's all wrong."

[jwatson-md]

The Heiress and the Grifter #2

[jwatson-md]

For the best part of an hour, they were seated at that table. Almost an hour of smiling, occasional French pet names and acting the part of ‘very involved couple’ with alarmingprecision. When Sherlock, at last, leaned over and suggested their exist, John smiled most affectionately with a little fugitive laugh. ”Oh! Behave yourself, you.” He spoke a tone louder than his ‘beau’, pretending to be delightfully scandalised.

Though he quickly trailed off with a flare of subtle warning in his eyes. /No, really. Behave./

Sherlock’s performance that evening had been absolutely award-winning, John would tell him later. The two men rose and passed through the dining area, making their exit back into the foyer. The act was seemingly easy to follow at that point, so much so that John placed his hand on Sherlock’s lower back immediately upon sighting another couple. They began to walk together, and as the two pairs passed each other, he smilingly nodded to them in polite acknowledgement. Momentarily alone, John’s act fell and he leaned closer to harshly mutter. ”What was that word you like to use again? ‘Tedious’?”

[roleplayifconvenient]

With a nod, Sherlock physically shook himself to throw off the ridiculously romantic affectation, flexing out his fingers and rolling his neck, as if remembering how to fit into his own skin again. "Tedious, yes," he replied, his voice still fond, but now utterly once again his own. "Still, effective. At least we have a firm grounding for the rest of the voyage, as far as the other passengers go. Tomorrow we can start on Meticulous." He paused, leaning against the wall with a soft, slightly weary sigh.

"Ugh. I feel like I need another shower after all that putrid smiling. Nevertheless, I should commend you; you made a decent husband." He smirked, chuckling to himself as he pushed off from the wall, starting to wander again towards their room. "Margaret fancies you. Stephen, the balding one across the table, is gay, but his wife knows it. She's asexual, so she doesn't mind being his beard. Odd arrangement, but they're happy with it." Sherlock prattled on for a while, tiredly reciting all the unspoken gossip of dinner, quietly relieved to be able to speak as himself for the first time in hours.

[roleplayifconvenient]

((OOC: To all players.))

I'm going to be as polite as possible in this, because I really would like you to read it.

After trying for many, many weeks to assist people to think of new threads/plot developments/etc, I suggested a message board/forum to make it easier for people to talk and organise their threads for WTL. Almost unanimously, everyone here stated that they wanted one, and would use it if it existed.

A week ago, I made one.

A week ago, John and I both posted, as a theoretical starting place for others to follow in our stead.

Not one person has posted. No ideas, no 'I would like to thread with X', no 'I have no ideas, can anyone suggest something'.

Nothing.

I made it for you. Use it. I'm not going to keep pushing myself to the limit to try to urge people to actually do something in this RP. If you don't want to post here anymore, that's fine; just let me or John know. If you do want to post, but temporarily are unable to do so for personal reasons, that's fine; again, just let me or John know.

But I am not going to keep pushing people for threads. You all know my email address, you can send me an 'ask', you can contact me on the forum.

You are required to participate in this RP. You can (as a couple have recently, and I'm grateful for that) post a 'prompt', if you don't have any current threads. Better still, you can use any of the above methods to contact someone to plan a thread.

I love WTL. It's been a huge part of my life for the last seven months. But it will die if you don't put effort in.

(Note: Do not just reply to this with an apology. Take that energy, and contribute. Plan, prompt, discuss, or, if you don't want to be here anymore, let us know.)

[jwatson-md]

The Heiress and the Grifter #2

[jwatson-md]

/It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a date./

There was a short, rustling movement from John where he seemed to sit himself straighter and, with perfect simplicity, dusted off Sherlock’s credible acting talents with an eventual cough. It did fuel a certain point of interest though, being Sherlock’s relationship history. On the rare occasion that John asked, he never did get a direct answer as no one seemed to know and Sherlock seemed to prefer the mystery. He certainly knew how to act romantic, if nothing else.

“Of course I remember.” Especially the part where Sherlock was prepared to chance death just to prove that he was clever. There was a touch of gentle reflection in John’s tone though; that day, in retrospect, had changed his life. He replied to himself semi-vacantly. “Very memorable, yeah.”

There was a little pause between moments, when John made an assenting sound and continued. “Some wine too, Sherlock.” He gave him a preliminary look that said, ‘I think I’ll be needing it.’

[roleplayifconvenient]

Sherlock smirked at the look on John's face, nodding twice in response. "Of course, mon petit trésor."

The dinner passed quickly enough; the company was innately boring, but luckily cruise-ship gossip turned Sherlock onto a few possible threads of investigation. Meticulous' new bride was the source of quite a bit of speculation, at least some of which might be useful in the end. The initial stream of 'how we met' stories from the couples at the table had been torture to sit through, but speaking out would have blown their cover, as shallow as it was. As an apparently newly married man himself, he at least had to maintain the appearance of happiness in their happiness.

After starters (brioche), mains (pasta with seafood) and finally dessert (strawberry cheesecake), the meal was pronounced over, and couples were free to either remain and chatter amongst themselves, or leave and make the most of the other facilities the cruise ship offered. Although both he and John had played their part to perfection, it was clear on John's face that he was just as tired of it for the night as Sherlock was himself.

"Should we go, love?" he asked quietly in a low croon, leaning a little closer to his 'husband's' side. "Company's been lovely and all, but I'd quite like to get you all to myself for a while..." He smirked, quirking up the corner of one eyebrow, the silent indicator of 'oh god, I hate them all, please get me out of here'.