[Time's up, and there's John at the door, oddly out of breath, as if he limped his very fastest to get there. He stands rigid, his eyes scanning the room, searching for anything out of place. For the intruder that he knew must be there, because although he imagines up a limp, he doesn't have auditory hallucinations. Someone was there.
... And suddenly, he has odd flashbacks of what Sherlock might have done in this sort of situation. John moves toward the windows, glancing out, frowning determinedly. There's no sign of forced entry, and no one particularly suspicious outside. Of course, they could have easily come through the door... pretty much anyone could. And, if they were smart, they wouldn't be dashing around the street after a break-in.
A headache begins to form, and John wearily puts his free hand on his forehead. Well, they had to have taken something, right? Whoever had broken in knew who had lived in the flat, more than likely. So, it didn't matter whether it was some intelligent criminal, or a crazed fan. They would've been determined. Probably wouldn't have left empty-handed.]
... Dammit, Sherlock. Don't... bloody... put words in my head.
[Because that's pretty much what happened. John massages his temples.]
Okay, no. You know what? It was nothing. I'm bloody crazy.
[Even though he knows he's not. Trying to reason his way through all of this is too familiar, too painful. His drive to protect Sherlock's things is still there, but a wave of grief washes over him as he sinks into his chair.]
... HOOOOIIII
... And suddenly, he has odd flashbacks of what Sherlock might have done in this sort of situation. John moves toward the windows, glancing out, frowning determinedly. There's no sign of forced entry, and no one particularly suspicious outside. Of course, they could have easily come through the door... pretty much anyone could. And, if they were smart, they wouldn't be dashing around the street after a break-in.
A headache begins to form, and John wearily puts his free hand on his forehead. Well, they had to have taken something, right? Whoever had broken in knew who had lived in the flat, more than likely. So, it didn't matter whether it was some intelligent criminal, or a crazed fan. They would've been determined. Probably wouldn't have left empty-handed.]
... Dammit, Sherlock. Don't... bloody... put words in my head.
[Because that's pretty much what happened. John massages his temples.]
Okay, no. You know what? It was nothing. I'm bloody crazy.
[Even though he knows he's not. Trying to reason his way through all of this is too familiar, too painful. His drive to protect Sherlock's things is still there, but a wave of grief washes over him as he sinks into his chair.]