[ It was getting dark when Sherlock left the coffee shop, and by the time he'd pushed through Sector Five's clothing shop (atrocious task, and of course nothing has sleeves) the hour was growing late. He was about to give up and just head back to the Shelter when a hard wave of vertigo sent him snatching at the racks and going down. Oh.

For a moment, he had sat among a swathe of brightly colored shirts, ringed by a metal trolly that held them up. He did not panic; did not think much at all, in fact, beyond the way the room swam, until he suddenly could. The inevitable was happening. His body was failing him. There was a brief debate as to whether or not he could possibly make it to the shelter before his motor skills began to fail him, all the while clambering out of the mess while the world stood still. Thoughts after that were fogged and unimportant.

What's important is that, for better or for worse, he's laid up on the bench of one of the fitting rooms. He's tall, so his torso fits and the rest spills off. Somewhat on his side, eyes shut, dead to the world. Patches - practically pale enough to blend in with his skin - line the underside of the visible arm. His instincts had the good sense to shut the door behind him to afford him some privacy. He didn't lock it, though. ]

[ guess what? it's midnight! and someone is scaling the wall of Casa de Britannia, swiftly and silently.

he reaches the windowsill, peers in through the window, and knocks softly. ]

[Nakama's in a hurry. When she gets home, she races right upstairs to throw on her blue floral dress, pulls down her hair and runs a comb through it, grabs her messenger bag (maybe she should get a purse?), then bolts back down the stairs and toward the door.

... and slowly backpedals to the kitchen door, peering in curiously. She didn't notice on her first run past, but that is a positively thunderous look on Ushiro's face.]

Ushiro? You okay?

[Itachi leaps from the roof of one building to another, keeping a quiet pace, shifting in and out of the shadows easily as he moves. He is not moving quickly, as speed can make one's eyes less diligent, but he will not be easily noticed.

It's the late shift again, and to be honest, he prefers it. Walking through the sectors late at night, listening to whatever might break the silence. He's more than capable of giving enough attention to outside world and his own thoughts at the same time, and thus the quiet solitude of the night is beneficial to him.

Usually. Perhaps he would prefer the distraction tonight, when thoughts do little more than annoy him with their uselessness. Such as thoughts about Kisame and his strange presence--someone from his future who knows is past. Someone who knows far too much.

A distraction may be suitable for the occasion.]

[Voice]

Can one truly be incapable of intentionally killing a friend under any circumstances?