[Sherlock's mind is reaching its limit. It's run itself ragged just trying to keep itself together, and is stuttering and stumbling to process everything. Each corner is a new hallucination: Lestrade, disappointed and disbelieving; Mycroft, lamenting the choice to drag his troublesome little brother out of the gutter; Moriarty, lunging, laughing, killing.
The only one that stays consistent is John, trailing after him wherever he goes. The vast majority of the little mental energy Sherlock has left is going to ignoring him, the cold expression, the dead eyes, the shouted (and justified) accusations.
Moriarty's killed John once or twice. But still, every time Sherlock checks, he's there.
It's exhausting, and yet Sherlock still oscillates wildly between silent and still to riled with agitation, swaying on his feet, shouting at nothing. It's the latter right now, while he drowns out Moriarty's cackles.]
Don't tell me you've run out of new material! Such a disappointment, Paradisa. Come on, come on! I'm getting bored!
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The only one that stays consistent is John, trailing after him wherever he goes. The vast majority of the little mental energy Sherlock has left is going to ignoring him, the cold expression, the dead eyes, the shouted (and justified) accusations.
Moriarty's killed John once or twice. But still, every time Sherlock checks, he's there.
It's exhausting, and yet Sherlock still oscillates wildly between silent and still to riled with agitation, swaying on his feet, shouting at nothing. It's the latter right now, while he drowns out Moriarty's cackles.]
Don't tell me you've run out of new material! Such a disappointment, Paradisa. Come on, come on! I'm getting bored!