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john watson

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( the flat of COOL, DUN DUN DUUUUN )

[ Breakfast. Most important meal of the day and all that. John's sitting at the table in the sitting room with a piece of toast and what could probably pass as the morning paper (or the closet equivalent he could find in this place). Interesting stuff. Well, not exactly, but that isn't the point. ]

Did you get it back yet? [ Sherlock is around. He's pretty sure he is. Somewhere. So he just calls out as he reads up about some sort of town drama, hoping the detective hears. ] The housecoat, I mean.
----

[ A few hours later John slips into the clinic, journal in hand. Slow day, he hopes, wouldn't like to see anyone come in after having jumped off a building and slipped, breaking their ankle or something like that.

He sets himself up nearby the front door, flicking briefly through the journal. Hm. ]

The castle doesn't do that sort of thing all of the time does it? Locking people in rooms with tacky decorations? [ It was such a lovely reminder of how painfully single he is right now. :| ]

(ooc; LALA open for journal and in person shenanigans.)

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Should've kept it to yourself, then. Not the most enlightened theory you've ever had.

It was a joke, mostly.

[WE DON'T JOKE ABOUT THINGS LIKE THAT IN THIS FLAT, JOHN. B(

He doesn't answer, not really, just keeps eating his toast bit by bit. Because she's interesting, that woman. More so than a lot of the people he meets in the castle.

How about a non sequitur instead?]

Thought it would bother you.

[ He stops washing suddenly, hands hovering simply centimeters above the soap and water. ]

Why, would it bother me? [ ........ We're talking about the dating thing right? ]

[He rolls his eyes, like John's being particularly dense for not reading his mind and jumping topics appropriately. Sheesh.]

Not that. Her.

Oh. Her. [ He quickly goes back to washing, probably in a effort to hide how utterly stupid he feels. ]

She does bother me.

Why?

[It's not really a genuine question. It barely has the inflection of one. He just wants to hear the answer.]

[ He frowns at the petri dish he's washing, trying to find the right words to explain it. It's hard. ]

She's connected to us in some way. [ Clean, now it'll go join the rest on the rack. ] I don't like not know how.

[He nods, like it was some sort of inscrutable exam question that John managed to pass. Then he goes quiet again, watching without really seeing, thinking deeply.

And-- oh, that was his last bit of toast. Oh well. Should've at least put butter on it anyway.]

[ John seems to notice, because he stops again and drys his hands. Grabbing another piece of bread out and putting it into the toaster, then returning to the dishes.

Yes, he is taking advantage of what seems to be Sherlock's random desire to eat. ]

What are you thinking about?

[He watches silently. Doesn't protest, even though he's not really hungry anymore. (Wasn't really hungry in the first place.)

He's still staring at the toaster when he answers.]

That's what bothers you. The not knowing.

[He says it like it's new information. He's not talking about Irene anymore.]

[ He's shaking his hands dry when he speaks and he turns to face him. It takes a moment for recognition to make it's way across his face. He feels his insides twist. They couldn't avoid it forever, as much a they wanted too. ]

Yeah. [ Absently he reaches for a tea towel, slowly wiping his hands clean. ]

I'm working on it. Have been since I got here. There are a lot of variables to account for and the data is limited, but I've worked with less before.

[Except five months and he still doesn't have an answer. Not a good one, not one that satisfies him. His expression turns frustrated.]

I am trying, John.

[ He'd feel relieved if it didn't do little to help the situation. Relief that he's not the only one bothered by it won't get them their answers. ]

I, I know. You wouldn't leave something like it to collect dust.

No.

[But it is anyway. Hasn't had a development in weeks. Stuck with the same equations, the same circumstantial evidence, the same half-formed guesses....]

Do you want to see them? My notes. Can't show you all of them, obviously [loss] but a fresh perspective on some of the data could be useful to me.

[It's a flimsy rationale. (Could be useful, but probably won't be.) But the guilt is nagging at him, and information feels like the only thing he has to offer.]

[ He raises an eyebrow, the uncertainty plainly obvious. He's not sure if he'd be of any help, honestly. But this—it might as well be an apology, or an peace offering (not that they're fighting) coming from Sherlock. ]

Sure, I'll take a look.

[ It's only then he realizes he's still wiping his hands. Has been for a bit. He makes himself stop, putting the tea towel down. ]

[He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a thin moleskine journal. The toaster goes off again just as he hands it over, and he embraces the distraction, plucking the bread out and sweeping towards the fridge for butter.

The notebook is just over three-quarters of the way full of notes in his scratchy shorthand, observations that the castle allows him to record outside of a private filter. Early on: a few different profiles of Moriarty based on information gleaned during their Game, notes on John and Sherlock himself, observations about the pool, location, and atmosphere. There are notes on the properties of Semtex. One page is entirely a list of psychological constructs. Interspersed are what look to be page numbers, circled in heavy pen -- probably reference marks to wherever he put his more in-depth theories.

Then it turns into math equations, physics by the looks of it. The vast majority have to do with explosives and blast radii, but some deal with the velocity of a bullet fired from a gun with the specs of John's pistol, or the force required to obliterate the structural integrity of a building like the one they were in.

Then there are diagrams. Or, rather, the same diagram, over and over. It's a replication of the pool in the last moment he remembers, marked with distances in meters, references to earlier equations, and the relative positions of all three of them -- labeled JW, SH, and JM.

Then it just stops, and the rest of the pages are blank.]

[ The moment he opens it he's engrossed, the gears of his mind start turning as he tries to process everything written down. It's a lot to take in. He doubles back a few times, re-reading a page he had previously read. Forward. Back again.

This is amazing. Really. The amount of things Sherlock noticed compared to him honestly astounds him, it always does. He manages to keep the exclamations from escape his mouth this time. Only just. Despite stop him from smiling briefly though.

In the middle of staring at the diagrams something in his mind clicks, the gears grind to a screeching halt and he blinks. ]

Irene. [ A beat. ] That's her name, Irene Adler. [ But that's not his point. ] Look I could be wrong about this, ridiculously wrong, but she knows us. She's been in the flat. So unless she simply decided to break into the flat to take a shower and parade around in a dead, or comatose, man's housecoat, we must have made it out of there alive. [ Only he has no idea how. He stabbing blindly in the dark, hoping to hit the truth or maybe something close to it. ]

[He leans out of the fridge and closes it with his elbow, the butter balanced on his forearm. His brow draws together in thought.]

The logic is sound, yes. [He dumps the tub on the counter and fishes around for a knife.] But that theory hinges on the assumption that the castle is genuine, and that it's possible for us to have stumbled into a dimensional crossroad that has little regard for space-time and physics in general.

[He glances up meaningfully. By his expression, he could go either way.]

Are you willing to accept that?

[ He opens his mouth, then closes it. Good question. Is he willing to accept that? On the one hand he'll have that certainty that he isn't dead but on the other. He closes the journal and puts it down on the counter, almost trying to avoid meeting Sherlock's gaze. ]

I don't know. [ He brings his a hand up to his face, covering it with a sigh. ] Maybe.

It's better than being driven mad not knowing if we're alive or not.

Doesn't work if it's just a "maybe." You have to be certain, or you'll simply start second-guessing yourself about this instead.

[He pauses, spreads butter on his toast while he turns this over in his head. It's the most improbable answer, certainly, but it's also the simplest, the only one that accounts for everything.

Not to mention the most interesting.]

[ He groans, pinching his nose between his fingers. He has to be certain that they really are in a magic castle? Yeah, he can do that. Of course he can. Right? Better than being dead. Better than not knowing if he's dead. ]

Yeah, I can accept it. [ Pretty sure he can. ] Even if it's bloody insane.

[He doesn't answer at first. Just stands back and watches for a while. Oh, hey, this toast is way more delicious than the first one was. Neat.]

I'll have to correct you if I find evidence to the contrary, you realize.

[He doesn't have it in him to just accept it outright. As a possibility, yes, but.... Eliminate the impossible and all that.]

[ That's because it is warm instead of cold. Cold toast is never that delicious. He lower his hand, finally, and looks at him. ]

Of course, wouldn't expect anything less.

Good.

[He nods, then wanders back over to scoop his journal off the counter and put it back in his pocket where it belongs, munching on his toast almost absentmindedly. Still an open investigation. Having theories about the answer isn't enough; he wants (needs) to know the how of it.

But that's his problem. If John is satisfied, then that's fine. That's better. It assuages the guilt (a little).]

I can probably finish the investigation on my own, then. [beat] Don't necessarily need to be constantly updating you. [another beat] Unless you'd like me to.

[Doesn't need to keep reminding John of it if he doesn't want to think about it, he means. Out of sight, out of mind, isn't that what people say?]

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