020 || written;

[workaphilic]

[ Private ]

[It's the first time he's opened the journal for more than surveillance in over a month.

(Unless you count the anonymous message left by the unfortunate bystander who happened upon a crime scene. He doesn't. Won't ever be traced back to him anyway.)

The weekend had been a long one, and he....

He is so very tired.]

Limited memory of the townspeople is both a boon and a handicap. Still, managed to establish six safe houses within the city limits. Use is suspended until further notice. Remaining in rotation is no longer necessary nor useful.

ICE: 118 5^th St W.

[He keeps emotion out of his language. There is a time for objectivity, and this is it.]

9 July, JM → RB via castle alteration.

JM will undoubtedly be unstable at the conclusion of the alteration. Already impatient, nearly humiliated, freshly reminded of those events. Best way to minimize the severity of the backlash: play the role of the beaten rival.

Needs to be substantiated, reinforced through an unrelated network.

[He stops. The next course of action is obvious; he doesn't need to record it.


It's another fifteen minutes before he writes in the next filter. (Already spent days putting it off, what's another few minutes.) He's careful to use a third handwriting. Not the innocent bystander, and certainly not Sherlock Holmes. He needs to ensure he at least gets a word in, even if John doesn't want to see him.

It's important. For his own safety.]

----

[ John Watson ]

Hello, Dr Watson.

----

Comments

filter

[confidente]

[ It takes him twenty minutes to answer, after doing his damnedest to try and figure who is writing. He comes up with nothing. ]

Who's this?

filter

[workaphilic]

A friend.

Are you occupied?

filter

[confidente]

[ :| ]

Not at the moment. [ Curse his morbid curiosity. ]

filter

[workaphilic]

There's a clearing in the woods, due east of the shooting range. Can't miss it.

20 minutes.

Don't tell anyone when you leave.

filter

[confidente]

[ He frowns at the journal. ]

I'm not in the habit of trusting anonymous messages without good reason. So why exactly should I come?

filter

[workaphilic]

I'm in possession of information you might be interested to hear.

Of course, you're free to ignore me if you wish.

Your choice.

filter

[confidente]

[ Ignore it? He's not going to ignore it. The information could be important, could be about Sherlock. ]

Fine. Clearing, 20 minutes. [ JOURNAL. CLOSED. ]

[workaphilic]

[Oh, John. It's almost too easy, when you know which buttons to push. Should really work on that.

(They know each other well. That's undeniable, whether he's able to repair the rift between them or not.)

He stations himself just beyond said clearing; far enough back to be hidden by the trees, but not so far that he won't see when John arrives. (Control, control, he needs control.) He lights a cigarette, and he waits.]

[confidente]

[ It's not his fault Sherlock knows what buttons to push, not to mention that button pushing is one of his many skills.

John arrives there twenty five minutes later, guard up and frown on his face. He doesn't trust this, he doesn't trust it at all. He brought his gun, just in case, nestled comfortably in the back of his jeans. He hopes to god he doesn't have to use it.

It doesn't surprise him that the clearing is empty when he gets there, whoever it is that called him out here wants to remain secret. It makes his stomach churn uncomfortably.

He'll give it five minutes. After that he's leaving and shafting this as a waste of his time. ]

[workaphilic]

[He finishes the first cigarette in barely four minutes. The second, just the same. After the third, he forces himself to stop. (The pack, brand new this morning, is nearly half empty.)

Then John is there, and the itch for nicotine dies out on the tips of his fingers.

He hangs back the first minute or so. Watching. Cataloging. There's only so much data you can gather from pages of the journal and wayward messages on his phone. ('You're a complete bastard, you know that?')

Only fair for him to see what kind of damage he's wrought.

He pushes two minutes, and there's no room to run anymore.]

You're late.

[He steps out, finally (finally) as himself. His clothes, his posture, his voice.]

I'd have expected you to be more punctual than that, John.

[confidente]

[ 'You're late.'

His entire body freezes, every muscle locks in place. He knows that voice. He'd know it anywhere. Even in a sea of people. He doesn't turn, can't, too scared, too angry.

It feels like he's been hit by a forceful wave. His chest tightens and throat locks up. He can see the roof of St. Bartholomew's, he can see Sherlock standing there. Phone to his ear. 'Will you do this for me?' 'Do what?' He can see him jump (more like fall), he can hear himself scream his name in vain.

Turn around John.

Turn around.

His head goes first, then the rest of him. Everything screams in protest, but he ignores it. He has to see him. To see-- ]

Sher-- [ Can't finish. The rest of his name catches in his throat. He can feel his legs beginning to give way, his head spinning. He's going to faint.

Haha.

And then he does. ]

[workaphilic]

[He'd compiled a list of possible (probable) ways for this initial confrontation to end. He couldn't plan for the entire encounter, of course (John is much less predictable than most would believe), but he could for the beginning, at the very least.

This particular outcome was not on said list.

He sees it happening before it does, but given the distance and his lack of preparation, there isn't much he can do to stop it.

Sherlock's beside him in the next instant, crouching to urge him back awake.]

John. Can you hear me? John.

[confidente]

[ He stirs, groans, eyes fluttering open to see him over him. Sherlock. Alive. His head pounds from it's meeting with the ground. ]

Christ. [ He blinks once, the again, three times. He's not disappearing. He's really there--of course he is. The bastard's nameplate is still on the flat, John's known for a while that he is still here. In some form. But...

He didn't want to think what it meant.

(inhale) He sits up dragging a hand over his face. (exhale) ]

You're alive.

[ Did the castle bring you back? Did you even go home? Do you know what happened? Where have you been for the past month? Why didn't you answer your bloody phone? The questions sits on the tip of his tongue, yet he doesn't dare let them get any further. Doubts Sherlock can't see them anyway, bouncing around in his mouth and his head. ]

[workaphilic]

[His eyes roam, monitoring John's face, his hands, his breathing patterns. When he seems convinced that John won't keel over at the next startling revelation (Sherlock has always had a fondness for the dramatic), he leans back, gives him space.

There's a tightness in his body language. Nerves. So many questions he doesn't want to answer. Not yet. Always easier to pretend they aren't as obvious as they are. (He is not, strictly speaking, a mind reader.)]

Yes. By some definition, anyway.

[confidente]

[ No, he won't kneel over. But he does get angry. His hands curl into fists and he pushes himself up off the ground suddenly. Bad choice, his head doesn't appreciate it and he sways. But he doesn't care. ]

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

[ He has an idea, he thinks. But it's worse than him being dead. A lot worse. ]

[workaphilic]

[Sherlock stands slowly, warily. This, yes, he was expecting.]

Graciously reanimated by a so-called "magical" castle in a separate dimension.

I don't think I'd call that being alive in the truest sense. Would you?

[confidente]

[ His jaw clenches, fists shake with how tightly he's clenching them. ]

You've got to be kidding me.

[workaphilic]

Not the sort of thing to kid about, is it.

[confidente]

[ He steps (stumbles) back, torn between being shocked and angry. ]

Why? [ His voice cracks. ] Why the hell did you call me out here then?

[workaphilic]

[Something inside him shifts terrifyingly sideways. He's not naive, not a child, knew this wasn't going to be simple or straightforward. But it's still somehow so much more than he expected.

His voice dips, gently.]

To give you a choice.

[confidente]

[ It makes John flinch. Don't. Jesus Christ. Don't. How the hell does he expect him to live with this? ]

A choice? What sort of choice?

[workaphilic]

I have stable accommodations. I can continue to keep my distance, if that's what you'd prefer.

[The 'or' is implicit.

Or he can come home, fake normalcy, try to make up for what he's done.

(What he's doing.)]

[confidente]

Or you could come back to the flat do we can pretend that nothing ever happened, that you aren't dead and won't go back to being dead when Paradisa finally gets sick of you?

[ He can't hide the venom in his voice, he doesn't want to. Does he really expect John to want that? ]

Go back to the flat if you want, I don't care. I'm not staying there.

[ He feels sick. ]

[workaphilic]

I know.

[It falls out of his mouth, a reflex. Of course he does. He's been watching, vigilantly, for the entire month. But those are the conditions -- he's not in any rush to go back to an empty flat, either.

(He doesn't need the reminder of what he's lost, either.)

The (expected) rejection stings, more than he'll admit, and he can't help biting back.]

Distance it is, then. You're free to go back to pretending I'm a ghost, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

[confidente]

[ Anger colors his face again and he has to fight to keep himself from yelling. ]

I can't, Sherlock. Don't ask me to do that.

[ Even if he wanted to he couldn't. ]

Do you even know what you did to me? Do you even care?