(no subject)

[absurdities]

 ANGST MEME

Sometimes we all want to play some angst and see just how far our characters will fall.

 

- Post your characters, name and series in the subject along with any preferences.

- Go to random.org and roll.

- Play!

 1. just depressed.

Things are tough, you're feeling worn out, or whatever the case, you're depressed. You need help or someone else thinks you do anyway.

 

2. abandoned.

You were left behind by everyone you hold dear and now you're forced to see how well they've adjusted, how happy they all are while you're screaming inside.

 

3. sick.

Cold, flu, or something even worse, all you can do is lay back and let someone take care of you.

 

4. fight.

You've been fighting nonstop with the other person and it just keep escalating.

 

5. break up.

You're being broken up with and they won't reconsider... Damn.

 

6. separated.

For some reason, you've been separated from the other person for a long time.

 

7. kidnapped.

You've been held captive for how long now? Maybe they've been torturing you even, using your blood to write ransom notes, threatening to cut off fingers to send next, etc. Rescue is on the way though, right?

 

8. beaten up.

Just because someone didn't like you or maybe they wanted something you had, whatever the case is, you're coming home sporting some nasty wounds and bruises.

 

9. jealousy.

You just have this undeniable jealousy suddenly and you need to let it out.

 

10. cheated on.
This goes beyond just suspicion and you have full on proof of what your lover has done. How do you handle it?

 

11. apathetic.

You're not sad, you're not happy, you just... don't feel much anymore. The sparkle of life has gone right out of you and you're just going through the motions now.

 

12. addicted.

Drugs, alcohol, whatever your drug of choice is, you can't fight the draw and you can't draw yourself out of the hole, but the other person is going to try.

 

13. bad romance.

You know this isn't good for either of you, but you can't stop now.

 

14. fear.

Nightmares, the feeling someone is following you, etc. You can't shake the feeling.

 

15. insanity.

You're seeing things and hearing them, waking up only to realize you've done things you don't remember or you're in a place you weren't before. You're losing it and you don't know what to do.

 

16. guilt.

It's eating you up inside and you have to tell someone about it now. You want to be punished and you won't take no for an answer.

 

17. loss

You've lost something dear to you.

 

18. wild card.

Combine some options or make your own!

Comments

[substituteskull]

Sherlock risking his own livelihood to protect John, Mrs. Hudson and even DI Lestrade had once been enough to keep John from hitting Sherlock the day he returned to his life after so many unanswered prayers. The fact that they can not connect again is a lapse in judgement on each of their parts. John knows Sherlock is inflexible on most things. Yes, he'd been all right making space for him once upon a time, he'd been all right more or less honouring the label system in the kitchen, and a fairly stand up bloke on granting John small stipends to allow him the chance to eat more than just half wilting lettuce and over date sandwiches in the discount basket at Tesco's. But neither of them really want things to return to how they'd been and John has yet to figure out that Sherlock is still making concessions for him now.

In his own way.

By once more keeping him safe. John himself isn't helping matters by proving just how much he can not be trusted with his own personal safety anyway. The alcohol is enough to turn even his stomach but like his father and his sister before him, it's a comfort to fill the spaces that can not be filled with anything else.

"A client," John bristles and swims his arms to find purchase against the back of the sofa. He wants to be up and standing and on equal footing with the insufferable flatmate he can't bring himself to leave go of now that he's back again. His vision is not quite up for the task and a wave of dizziness follows. "You don't know how to be careful. You keep going alone and one day you won't come back. Again!"

John's quick stab at the very heart of the problem is followed by a shove with his scarred shoulder passed Sherlock to head up the stairs to his bedroom.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly by the way John says 'client.' He's upset, Sherlock decides, though he can't fathom why that would upset him. In his mind, it's the only natural thing for him to have been doing outside of being at Scotland Yard, Bart's, or visiting a crime scene. It's simply what he does. It's nearly the only thing he does when he's not sitting around the flat either working on experiments or complaining noisily about boredom.

He simply stands back as John tries to pull himself up from the sofa. He feels that if John falls flat on his face, it might help to sober him up some. He starts to reach for John when he sways too far to the left, but his hand doesn't reach its destination before his friend somehow rights himself.

So that's what this is about.

"As you can see, I'm perfectly sound," Sherlock tells him as he turns to face his retreating flatmate. He doesn't mind so much being pushed aside like that, but he does mind John wanting to go upstairs when he's clearly too drunk to be left alone. He'd still go up periodically through the next few hours to make sure John's lying with his face to the side, but it would be much easier to do it if John were to just stay on the sofa.

[substituteskull]

Sherlock has answers for everything, John thinks bitterly, despite the fact that it's exactly who Sherlock is to have those answers...or if not, to find them in short work. The man could quote a children's rhyme but not know the solar system and still predict tides and catalog ash types in his sleep. He's a book on legs. No. The internet on legs. And John use to find that fascinating. Now-- Well, it's still fascinating but he wants just a little consideration for the grief he was forced to endure for years. To have Sherlock settle so easily into routine is--

Typical. John, it's typical. You can't be mad at the man for going about his daily business now that his name is finally cleared, can you?

The answer is a resounding 'absolutely' and John misses the fifth step and slides down to the fourth before his hands reach out to put pressure on the walls of the narrow hallway leading up to his room. He takes the moment to climb to his feet to scowl over his shoulder. It's comical, really. The man with the most expressive face in the world comes up with some doozies sometimes.

"Perfectly sound! For now! You--" Jesus, just let him get up with some dignity will you? "You're going to get yourself in trouble and no one will be there. You can't just...deduce...your way out of everything."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock steps toward the stairs before John starts to fall. He can see it shortly before it happens in the way John's foot comes down. Not far enough forward. Heel will slip. Right foot will bend, slide, and then fall. Left leg will buckle from the weight. Hands will find nothing to grasp. And down John will go.

It plays out exactly as he expects, but Sherlock stops dead in his tracks by the look John gives him over his shoulder. The expression itself would be funny in any other situation, but right now it's just hard to look at. He's seen drunks before and he's dealt with addicts on a binge, but he'd never thought much about it. Seeing his only friend go through these sloppy motions and lose himself in the process is nauseating. He's not disgusted by John, but he's starting to feel revolted by some of his decisions. It's not his place or responsibility to be a caregiver.

"I can deduce my way through quite a lot. Right now, for instance, I can deduce that you're going to require assistance if you want any hope of getting to your bedroom. Once there, you'll likely pass out and wake up in two hours time in a puddle of your own sick," Sherlock tells him, avoiding addressing his friend's concern for his safety. Feeling like he's given a fair warning, Sherlock takes the next few steps and bends down to slip his hands under John's arms without waiting to be invited to do so.

[substituteskull]

Had John more foresight, he might have tried to shake Sherlock's hold off. John managed for nearly forty years before him, and three years since without him. He can get up the stairs on his own and fall asleep on his own and wake up in his sick on his own. That's a bit childish, even for John in his state, so he'll scowl instead.

There's silence on the upwards journey to his room, which takes his legs a lot longer than he'd like. Sherlock's patience in this is infuriating because he's never shown much patience before. No, that's not true. He's always been patient for his loyal sounding board. He's always mapped the way for John to try and keep up with him, physically and mentally. John just wants to dismiss that for the moment, thank you.

Once in his room, John's hand presses against old wallpaper. From the tiny window, he can see only darkness spotted with the lights of lampposts over the ridge of the town homes across the way.

John wets his lips and chances a glance up at Sherlock once more. "Why did you even come back?"

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock doesn't let John fall even when he loses his balance the next two times. The smaller man's weight is unwieldy because of the odd ways his disoriented body tries to correct his inebriated stumbling, but for the most part, they work together until they're at the top of the stairs where Sherlock begrudgingly unhands John so he can make his own way into the upstairs bathroom or to his bed.

He plans to stand there at the doorway until John's settled and he doesn't expect his presence to be appreciated. It doesn't matter, since he's only doing what he wants to do in this. That's how it's always been and how it always will be.

He's just folded his arms and started leaning on the door frame when John turns to face him. Then he asks that.

'Why did you even come back?'

The question feels like a punch to his gut. Sudden, painful, and leaving him in a momentary state of not being able to answer in any meaningful way. He'd thought that hearing the question 'Why did you leave?' would have been the hardest thing but he'd been wrong on rare occasion before.

Because I wanted to. You. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly.

"The same reason I left in the first place," Sherlock tells him coolly. He hadn't ever addressed the answer to the other question in words, so this might be a way of cheating and getting out of putting things into words that he felt were better expressed in actions and unspoken assumptions.

[substituteskull]

John thought he understood why Sherlock left. It'd taken time, both before he'd returned and after, to piece it all together. Hoping for a miracle aside, John'd tried to attend to much of Sherlock's unfinished business. This had been more than simply sending off his microscope collection to various schools and packing up his books. John had been worried about the whole Moriarty affair, eagerly and easily covered up by a brother John listed as public enemy number one for quite a long time until the life of Mycroft Holmes, always and intentionally closed to him, faded to gray and then black.

Moriarty and his network had been obliterated, but John found mention here and there of people that had seen two men on the roof of Bart's. He knew Sherlock had killed himself to end the game. Knew it had to be the only way. And if Moriarty disappeared too?

Well that meant him dead as well.

John Watson has never once, in his life, believed Sherlock a liar or a fake. And he never would either.

Owlishly, he blinks now at his friend in his attempt to straighten up. Once a military man, always a military man. Drunken state notwithstanding.

Sherlock's answer makes very little sense to John's understanding of Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective.

"You left to try to save us," John says bluntly, nose wrinkling. "You came back to torment us." Now that's just a mean speculation. "I've-- I've changed. You didn't save me. And you're not doing me any favours now either."

[consulting_freak]

At least John has one of the facts right. Sherlock doesn't try to defend himself against John's very much incorrect notion of why he'd returned to London after finishing his business. He doesn't tell John that he'd come back so he could once again be with his only friend. The one person in the entire world that seemed, at least at the time, to be the patient and understanding one. The one constant in his life that had stuck with him even through his lack of understanding in terms of social niceties and even through his episodes of destructive boredom. The one man he had deemed more important than his work.

Over. Is that what it was? Everything they'd been through all amounting to nothing. It's enough to make him laugh. Just a cold bitter note, not a real laugh. He always knew sentiment was found on the losing side and he should have taken heed to the warning he'd given Irene Adler.

"Alright," he says evenly. He looks down and away from John, taking in a deep breath. "If... if that's how you feel, then I'll just... leave." Tonight while John's sleeping off his drink, because if John truly wants him to go out of his life, he doesn't want to waste another minute.

[substituteskull]

A drunken man's accusations are typically false but that hardly means it's not the raw core of what's going on inside of his chest at any given moment. Sherlock's lingering presence has never truly left, no matter how faded it might have gotten.

That doesn't stop John from feeling utterly alone now as he watches Sherlock turn to leave. He might have entertained the idea that having the dark haired man return to his smokey existence might be nice on nights where John had worried endlessly about him, but to have it quite possibly happen?

John's usually the sort to let things go. He's learned to stop trying to hold on to anything these days. And yet, the very thought of Sherlock being gone is too much for him to bear.

"Where?" Not a 'no, please stop.' "You can't just keep leaving." Not without him, Sherlock. He's been at your side for nearly those entire eighteen months. What he's really saying is that he wants it back the way it had been. None of these half arsed attempts to continue on in such a diluted level.

Of course, the words just keep coming, before Sherlock has the chance to answer.

"If you insist on-- No. No.. You're not leaving. You'll have no one at all to look after you." Or perhaps that was 'out for you'? Quite hard to tell.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock hesitates when he hears John's words again. He wants to hear that 'no, please stop' that doesn't come. Some kind of indication that he hadn't been deluding himself by trying to come back to London to patch things up like they'd never been broken in the first place. It was one of his weaknesses, wanting to run away from the responsibility of his actions. Ever since he was a child, he'd never been able to say the words 'it was my fault,' much to his brother's endless frustration.

He's confused. First John tells him that his presence is harmful to him and then he tells him that he can't leave. It's the drink situation, isn't it? Indulge and find comfort in the very poison that's hurting you most. He'd done the same thing years ago with cocaine and later morphine, both landing him in the hospital a handful of times in total with suspected overdose. Is that what he's become to John?

After a moment, he turns his head to look over his shoulder and regards his friend's state. The look in John's eyes, posture, everything. Drunk. Self-abusively drunk. That emotional blow from before leaves him slightly less able to compartmentalise and suppress his emotional state as well as he'd like. Concern. Worry. Frustration. Anger. Devastation. Hurt.

"Well, what is it then?" He asks, voice biting as he closes the space between him and John until he's standing just inches apart from him. "Do you want me to stay or do you want me to go? I can't do both, John."

[substituteskull]

"I want--" Oh, hello wall. His good friend, so lovely to have you prop him up. John presses his eyes shut tightly for a long moment before he manages to find some stability and purchase where he stands and in his stance as well. He sucks in a breath before focusing completely on Sherlock and the little halo of light that illuminates his curls from the doorway. "I want to be let in again," he says.

And isn't that the true heart of this whole problem? John could overlook and accept Sherlock's idiosyncrasies because those very things were providing him with fuel for his own sales. Human beings, no matter how good, are inherently selfish. John is as well.

Having only a part time Sherlock is like having just the edge pieces of the puzzle.

You can't get the full picture and you can't appreciate the finished work because there's no substance. What he has with Sherlock now is nothing.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock follows John during his retreat right up until the point John's back finds the wall. It's better this way, anyway. John has more support against his back; therefore, he's less likely to fall because of his impaired motor control. One less thing to worry about with all of this mess and disarray going on.

He's frustrated when John closes his eyes like that. Looking away from him instead of standing his ground and facing him like the soldier he is. The drink, he reminds himself. Because, if not the drink, then it means something else is shaking the foundation of their friendship. As much as he scoffs at people grasping at certain evidence to find the outcome they want instead of the outcome that is, he's hypocritically doing the same thing with John in this moment.

"You want what," he coaxes during the pause between when John starts to speak and when he's ready to say it. He wants to be let in. It confuses him and it takes him several seconds to go through the various possible meanings of that phrase. He's already inside the flat, so that can't be it. It can't be a sexual euphemism because he used the word 'again' and contrary to what most people believed, they'd never taken their relationship to the physical. Metaphorical then. In on cases? In on him? Both are valid concerns.

"You're already in, John," Sherlock tells him, standing back just enough to give John room to breathe his own air. It's true on both accounts. Sure, he kept the low-stress cases to himself, but he could stop doing that. Maybe it would ease some of the tension between them to do it and he would certainly be able to focus if things were to start resembling what they had been before he'd jumped from Bart's rooftop. As for the emotional connection, there literally isn't anyone as in as John.

[substituteskull]

"No, no, I am not in." Lips pressed squarely together and cheeks puffed, for a long moment, it becomes hard to tell if John is going to continue on or just vomit over his shoes. Luckily, it's the first, though there's the waft of alcohol again on his breath as he invades the space between them Sherlock had been trying not to do. It is the alcohol giving him the agency to do this as a sober and right minded John often keeps most of his opinions to himself and simply makes faces at the wall during Sherlock's antics.

There is no such luck here. Inhibitions down, John has free reign to say all sorts of things... Nearly all of which he is destined to regret once he manages to come to his senses and sleep the ordeal off. It's not going to be pretty.

"I am out. I'm as out as Greg is!" He doesn't want to be a person to consult the consulting detective. Sherlock's need to protect him from the dangerous tasks is what's been allowing John to sit at home and go mad enough to wash his cares away with liquor. "You go out at all hours of the day and night and return the same way!" He gestures madly and has to catch himself again. "And I am tired of-- Of not being considered. Or protected. Or whatever it is you're doing. I'm bloody well better than that and you know it!"

[consulting_freak]

Unlike John, Sherlock stands his ground when the other man approaches him. He doesn't care much for personal space, so John being this close to him is relatively inoffensive. The only thing that makes him nervous is the blatant hand gestures, one of which is bound to knock him in the eye or cheek at some point during the ordeal. The smell of alcohol on his friend's breath when he fusses is also troubling and uncomfortable, but it's to be expected with the level of intoxication he'd come home to witness.

"You're not out," Sherlock tells John evenly once there's a lull in the ranting. He's not offended by being yelled at nor is he intimidated in the slightest. If anything, he prefers this over the slamming cabinet doors and avoidance they'd been giving each other off and on all week. He refuses to thank the alcohol for it, even though it had been the tipping factor.

"Do you know what I've been doing when I go out, John?" Sherlock asks once he's sure John's going to give him a chance to speak. "Yes, I've been doing cases. Intellectually stimulating but physically boring cases. Identity theft, con artistry, mysterious letters, things like that," he explains. He still hadn't quite gotten his name cleared enough to be included in any official cases from Scotland Yard, so everything he's doing comes from private clients. Downgraded to a private detective until he can scrape together enough integrity to go back to the fun stuff. The exciting stuff. "You're telling me you'd be satisfied with that?"

[substituteskull]

"Yes," John says immediately before he leans forward, nearly bumps his head on Sherlock's chest and wretches miserably on the floor between them. At the very least, he's missed every article of worn clothing. His floor is not so lucky. When he comes completely to, he's going to have a hell of a mess to clean up.

For now, though, he's just going to catch himself a break and thumb back towards his bed before he slowly shuffles there. Enough talking. Enough emotions. His stomach is still queasy and laying down? Well that seems like the best option now that they've managed to talk it out that Sherlock is not to leave John at home when it can be helped.

He ought to have reiterated that the blue and white striped mug is for tea only, but they'll get there eventually.

For now, he's going to curl up and die.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock steps back when he sees the colour drain from John's face. He's not a doctor but knows exactly what that means. He manages to step out of the firing range and save his jacket, at least. Unfortunately, the laws of physics dictate that his trouser legs and shoes would be caught by ricochet.

He gives the mess a disgusted sort of look before stepping around it and going to correct John's lying posture. He needs to be on his side, not his stomach or his back. He also needs to elevate his head a little more than he is. There, much better.

"Water?" he asks simply as he tugs John's foot blanket out from under him so he could at least cover him with something.

[substituteskull]

Tomorrow, John decides, as Sherlock adjusts him like one might a child or an elderly man, he will apologize. Technically, he supposes, drifting off with a pounding in his head and a sourness to his stomach, it's all ready tomorrow but there will be more to discuss when his entire body is absolutely protesting any and everything happening to it at the moment.

John isn't sure if he feels foolish now or comforted. It's likely a good mixture of both and the heaviness of his head in the cool pillow ought to be left at the bookmarker for that evening.

Sleep comes easily. Dreams, unfortunately, do too. It's been a long time since he's had nightmares over Sherlock's death, elaborate and horrible as the trickery had been, and those he knows it all now to be a ruse, just after ten in the morning John comes to with a startled, muted cry and the worst headache he's had in his life.

At least he's not ruined his sheets with vomit.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock had stayed up the entire night. He'd checked in on John every hour or so and left a bottle of water on his bedside table after his first trip upstairs in case John woke up at some point feeling dehydrated. He'd actually tried to wake the drunk intentionally just to get some fluids in him, but he'd been extremely resistant to his efforts.

At around eight o'clock AM, he'd made a few calls and procured two train tickets to Hampshire for that evening. After that, he reclined on the sofa and closed his eyes for a short nap. He assumed John would be up and about sometime before noon and that would act as a sufficient alarm system for him.


Something stirs him just after ten o'clock, but in the foggy haze of not enough sleep, he can't tell what it is. He looks around the living room and mumbles his flatmate's name. No, he's still upstairs and it doesn't look like Mrs. Hudson's been by either. Something tells him to go check on his friend, so he stumbles his way up the stairs without bothering to straighten his suit or his hair beforehand. "John?" he repeats as he approaches the bedroom door.

Headache. Hang over. Nightmare? Odd time, but yes. There'd been a nightmare. Usually Sherlock could predict them well enough to either prevent or interrupt them, but he hadn't noticed the warning sings the night before. Masked by the drink.

[substituteskull]

It's one uphill battle after another. There's still a mess to clean up -- though the beauty of hardwood flooring is that said mess is much easier to take care of than it might be if everything just so happened to be carpeted -- but getting his heart rate stable is something John is currently going to focus on for the time being. He swallows against the phlegm in his chest as Sherlock pushes open the door and wets his lips, stale from last night's boozer and lets his eyes drift upwards. There's just a flash of blood and the start of bruising transposed over Sherlock's face and John is forced to look away again.

He's had Sherlock wake him before, none of that is new. Generally, it's under the pretense that there's something new and fantastic to study now, some brilliant theory to check on, or just that Sherlock has a desire to do an experiment and would like John to offer a set of hands...or ears to talk off.

It's never once occurred to John Watson that his friend wakes him to spare him the misery of what a former soldier's dreams are like.

Sweating, tears in his eyes and collected on his lashes, John rubs at his temple. He must have been screaming, he realizes. How horrible. "I'm all right, forgot where I was for a second."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock can guess what the subject of John's nightmare had been by the way his friend can't look at him for more than a moment at a time without panic crossing his face and making him turn away. He's already apologised for adding that image to the arsenal of destructive things John's mind could throw at him in a moment of weakness, so he doesn't care to repeat it now. It would only be empty words at that point and neither of them need that.

"Have some water," he tells John, focusing on the hang over instead of the nightmare for the moment. He even steps into the room, uninvited, and opens the bottle of water for him.

"You're in your bedroom at 221B Baker Street," Sherlock explains, since he's not entirely sure if John's gotten his barrings off enough to literally not know where he is. That would be a very concerning side effect of the alcohol indulgence and he'd probably suggest having a CT scan on the off-chance it would be something more serious than an ethanol-induced blackout.

[substituteskull]

Doctor, heal thyself is a phrase John ought to take note of. It takes several long seconds -- which are gracefully and graciously covered up by the swig of the water bottle -- for John to come back to himself again. Finding Sherlock in his room is certainly a bit of a shake up. They've taken so often to avoiding one another that he's only just now realized how he's missed the prowl of the grumpy house cat he has for a flatmate poking around in his things when he deems convenient.

John's face settles. He's in pain but it's nothing he's not felt before. John tilts his head back and forth before he tests his legs on their ability to hold his weight and manages to make a better go of standing this time than he did the last time Sherlock saw him.

He even tries the smallest of smiles. It only makes it's way to the left side of his mouth, however, before it's covered by a wince.

"What do you have on for today?" he asks, deciding to just get right back to it. Cases. Excitement. Clearing Sherlock's name.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock hovers over the side of John's bed for longer than he really needs to. Much like John, he's feeling stuck in the moment of things feeling both right, normal, back to how things should be and also completely off from their new routine since his return. Of course, he preferred things to go back to the way they'd been before, but it wasn't him that started the propagating pushing away back and forth they'd been caught up in.

When John starts to stand up, Sherlock steps over the drying puddle on the floor to give the smaller man room. The whole upstairs reeks enough for Sherlock to turn his nose up at it, but it's not enough to make him leave. At least not while things were still civil between him and John.

"Case. Hampshire," he starts, then remembers that he hadn't actually told John about it quite yet. "I'll give you details on the way. Train leaves at 6:15."

[substituteskull]

There's nothing in here that having the window propped open and a good use of cleaning products can't help! It's so very lucky that John is not at all opposed to cleaning up after himself unlike some of the people he happens to live with. Ahem. John doesn't feel any awkwardness by Sherlock's presence. He never has. Closeness or lack there of is all the same to him. Sherlock's a different type of creature. One that John finds quite endearing even when he's being absolutely bloody awful.

He takes another swig of the water and is about to express his sorrow over anything he might have sicked up on a few hours before when what Sherlock mentioned gets around to him finally.

Yes, John. Pay attention. There's a case on.

Surprise brightens an otherwise cloudy, hung over set of eyes and the doctor's smile forms more fully this time.

"That's-- Hampshire?" He likes the countryside quite well, most English do, but John'd been hoping for something a little closer to home. "6:15? Have you made sleeping arrangements?" Or will calling a hotel or bed and breakfast in the area be his duty?

Our angst accidentaly became Hurt/Comfort xD

[consulting_freak]

Being in this room as long as he has is starting to feel stifling. The acid in the air is enough to make his eyes water and he puts a hand up to his nose, preferring to smell the residual hand soap off the back of his fingers instead of the sick on the floor. It wouldn't be too soon for John to clean things up. If he's in here for too much longer, he might retch himself.

In fact, Sherlock's just opening his mouth to comment that it's nice to know John's ears are working when a small ineffectual gag reaches him. Thank God he doesn't eat much on cases.

"God, John, I can taste it," he complains and turns to walk out the door and into the landing where the air might not be fresh, but it would be much more diluted than the air in the bedroom. He leans against the wall just outside the door and takes a moment to breathe and settle his stomach before going through John's question, though quite delayed in doing so.

He knew he'd been forgetting something. "No, I haven't made any arrangements. You don't mind," he says as a statement when it's really the unspoken request: John, will you make the sleeping arrangements?

Comfort seems all right pre and post angst!

[substituteskull]

John scrunches up his face. It's obvious he has a stronger stomach. And it's really not that bad. He'll blame sherlocks supposedly extra sensitive nose. Most likely, it's just Sherlock being a ruddy pain in the arse. Just as he's always meant to be. "Yes I-- Oh just go downstairs. I'll clean up and be down after a shower to book us a pair of rooms."

Such a finicky thing. And such a selective genius! Honestly, where did he hope to stay? And at such short notice! At least he booked the train. He'd not want to have to ride in a car for the two hour journey it would take otherwise. He's still unsure about Sherlock's driving capabilities.

Or his propensity to find every single bump in the road. And god forbid they hit traffic leaving London!

John shoos his flatmate down the stairs and starts the cleaning up process. It requires a shower after and he defends the stairs himself, headache full blown, in a dressing gown an hour later.