Sherlock Holmes (sh_rl_ck_d) wrote in expresslogs, @ 2012-02-15 16:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | {john watson, {sherlock holmes |
Characters: Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes
When: Wednesday, mid-afternoon
Location: New York
Warnings/Rating: Awesome.
Summary: Sherlock's been a bit of a jerk...
Status: Closed. Ongoing.
For the first time, Sherlock been thinking about how exactly one went about being gallant and romantic. He had seen the way John had written to his previous girlfriends, but honestly, that just wasn't Sherlock's style. And he didn't think John wanted him for his charm, anyway. But he had been thinking about it. Because, after everything he had put John through in the time they had known each other, one decent act of kindness was the least he could do.
The day before had been busy. Overly busy. Taking care of Jo, dealing with the repercussions of the murderer being caught - Sherlock had a lot to say on that, but had yet to let any of it out. He was a nightmare when he was brooding - and then finally the train stopping. He hadn't been able to see John alone until they'd gone to bed and even then Sherlock was in a foul mood.
The (late) morning after he had the decency to feel like a bit of an arse. John had been sleeping when Sherlock had dressed and left, stepping cautiously towards the door of their carriage. Fresh air. It smelt of city. Not like London, though. But busy, as he had expected it to be. He stood observing for a while, unwilling to simply throw himself off of a sentient train and into a place out of his time. Still, someone needed to get out there, find out where they were precisely so that their several plans of action could be...put into action.
He was gone no more than an hour. It was simple enough to fit in to this city. He had spent enough time dodging traffic and tiresome pedestrians to get on just fine. And apparently the Americans could be easily swayed by a nice English accent. The point was, though, that Sherlock returned around an hour later, sporting a map of New York, a (slightly poorly looking) red rose and some dinner reservations. Granted he had less than fifty pounds sterling about his person, but he also had one of his brother's passes and there was nothing Mycroft's name couldn't do. Plus, he reasoned, if Mycroft called him up on it, his self in this reality would no doubt have a brilliant alibi.
Sherlock knocked on the door of the room he was sharing with John, respecting his privacy in case John was, for some reason, flouncing around naked.