InsaneJournal

WHO: Sherlock Holmes & Clint Barton
WHAT: Coming face to face with his brother's personal assassin wasn't the best way to start a morning, but it was certainly invigorating.
WHEN: September 10th; Morning
WHERE: Joch yn y Tywyllwch
RATING: PG
STATUS: In Progress

Caffeine was one of the few vices of Sherlock's that nobody insisted on depriving him of. In fact, many had often said if it allowed him to survive without the others, that he was more than welcome to indulge just as often as he liked. Coffee, while never his beverage of choice, offered exactly the sort of indulgence that he needed that morning, feeling overly drained from the restrictions placed on them by their holy overlord, particularly the restrictions on being able to see his very real, very lovely live in (well, all right, he lived in with her) girlfriend while they were occupying (presumably) the very same room. He'd left early that morning, intent that the lab was a much better place from him to stay during the day because even if he didn't have any specific work to do, he could still see everyone there. Much like he could see everyone here. Having a limited number of individuals from his reality here did work out in a slightly beneficial way when these sort of things came along, but that didn't mean it didn't bother him to not be able to talk to his brother or see Irene like he wanted to. Even if he couldn't imagine what it must be like for people who has nearly their entire cohort here and were cut off.

Like the man that had just stepped in the door, in fact. Sherlock's attention was drawn across the room as the little bell gave a signaling ding of a new patron. He always moved to inspect them whenever they entered. Morning people were always the most interesting, those ones with that extra bit of determination in their step, and a wash of intentions that the others didn't always carry around. This patron, however, was more familiar than the other locals that wandered into the shop, and while they certainly hadn't met in person, Sherlock knew him more than by reputation.

After all, it wasn't every day that Mycroft put a professional assassin on his payroll.

"Holmes," His name was called by the barista behind the counter, and reaching up to take his cup, reclined against the counter, eyes pinned on the man across the room, sweeping over each details from his clothing and appearance (working out, jogging, most likely) before his eyes paused and lingered on the artificial appendage, his gut knotting for a long moment as he was viscerally reminded of just what and why had caused the archer to come into possession on the limb. Sherlock couldn't help but feel a little (well, a lot) responsible. After all, it had been him that Mycroft had been aiming to protect by murdering Moriarty. And instead, this man had taken the brunt of the hit instead.

That thought coupled with the feelings that were steadily becoming more familiar and much easier for him to name caused Sherlock to duck his gaze, eyes dropping to the lid of his coffee cup before he took a long, lingering sip in an attempt to calm his buzzing mind. Not that he could divert his eyes for too long because the archer made for an intriguing puzzle. There was a lot there that Sherlock couldn't quite break just from a swift glance at him in his workout clothes, and yet, he still wanted to know.