Charlie Price (![]() ![]() @ 2012-03-27 21:51:00 |
![]() |
|||
![]() |
|
![]() |
|
![]() |
Entry tags: | {james moriarty, {john watson |
Who? John Watson & Jim Moriarty.
Where? Moriarty's room. [Or at the door, at least.]
When? Tuesday.
What? Consequences. Showdown. Flowers and punching.
Rating? Med-High? Language, violence, threats, nastiness.
John didn't understand how he hadn't seen someone delivering the bunch of wildflowers to the infirmary. He must have dozed off in his chair for a while without even realising - it wouldn't have been surprising, he hadn't had a proper rest in days. He was surprised that he was still functioning at all.
It was with an almost laughable naivety that John automatically reached for the note attached to the gift. He'd had the initial idiocy to think that they might actually be from a friend or well-wisher who hadn't wanted to disturb his rest. And then he noticed the scarf and knew that he couldn't have been more wrong. Three letters, not enough to make anyone else suspicious, not enough to make anyone else think on it at all: I.O.U.
He was glad that Sherlock was sleeping and didn't have a chance to see his horrified facial expression, ask questions, deduce. This kind of stress was the last thing that Sherlock needed - he was far too weak for Moriarty's games.
The initial anger that John had felt toward Moriarty had been pushed to the back of his mind thus far. He'd decided early on that giving into that aggression would only delay him in finding Sherlock, and it would probably give Moriarty some sort of sick satisfaction just knowing that he could get a rise out of him. But this was too much. He could feel the anger resurfacing - not just about the flowers, but about it all. The heart on Sherlock's chest. The way he'd taunted him with Sherlock's scarf. Obviously, the fact that Sherlock could have very well just been left there to die. The fact that he never felt safe anymore - the rules might have changed, but everything about the situation was claustrophobic. He couldn't escape Moriarty. He couldn't escape the games and the jibes and the threats. Apparently, flowers were his breaking point.
He carefully untied the scarf and folded it, placing it down on the table beside Sherlock, before picking up the flowers and dumping them ungratefully into the bin. He held onto the note.
"Would you excuse me, I won't be long..." he trailed off, not even bothering to explain further. Perhaps leaving Sherlock with Mycroft wasn't the wisest move, but John was blinkered with rage. He barely noticed who was left in the infirmary. He was sure that others were staying close, anyway. And considering he was going to find Moriarty, he knew that there was one visitor Sherlock wouldn't be receiving.
He marched through the train carriage, note clenched in a fist, teeth grinding together in fury, ignoring everyone and everything that crossed his path until he reached Moriarty's cabin. There was no hesitation as he raised a fist to pound at the door a few times before taking a step sharply. A good swinging distance.