"Mercy, right," John responds, nodding, but his gaze is on the floor as if collecting himself for a violent impulse; Sherlock has had opportunity to observe the signs, himself, often enough over the years. "No, yeah, I get it, no need for a t-shirt."
"Are you quite sure?" Magnussen asks, shifting his weight to loom over John. "Because I do worry my example might be too abstract; after all, I hardly make my way around Europe flicking countries, even if I can have their best friends do it for me! Maybe a more practical demonstration is needed to really..." Magnussen's gaze crawls leisurely over Sherlock, head to toe. "...drive the point home?"
Dread settles in Sherlock's gut like a stone. If Magnussen decides to threaten (or order John to threaten) life or limb, John is much more likely to balk and do something idiotic, like remember the gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers.
John shuffles his feet, darts a gaze in Sherlock’s direction which Sherlock studiously ignores. John scratches an eyebrow with the edge of his thumbnail, shifts his weight again. "Really, really not necessary. I get it, you’re a colossal prick who gets off on making people let you do degrading, humiliating things to them."
"Ah, that is good, John! Yes, and speaking of pricks," Magnussen repeats the word carefully, with amusement, "I wonder if you would remove yours from your trousers?"
"What the hell are you on about?" John demands with deadly calm.
"You seemed quite upset when I took a piss on the floor in Sherlock's grotty apartment," Magnussen mentions, seemingly apropos of nothing. Sherlock can see where this is going. Stupid! Whatever Magnussen coerces them into now, purely for his own sick entertainment, Sherlock has brought upon them both.
"That is something else I do, just a little thing--I look for 'tells,' and I use them to my advantage. So Sherlock is going to get on his knees," Magnussen explains, "and you are going to piss on him."
"Like hell I am!"
"Come now, John, think of Mary. What is a little uric acid between good friends?" Magnussen chuckles as he swirls the liquid in his glass.
"Sherlock--"
Slowly, with as much dignity as he can manage, Sherlock lowers himself to his knees on the carpet. "I'm sorry. Just...do it."
"You can't be serious," John protests, glancing uneasily from Sherlock to Magnussen, then back again.
Sherlock responds by sitting back on his heels, bracing his hands on his thighs.
FILL TEASER (spoilers for HLV) pt. 2
"Are you quite sure?" Magnussen asks, shifting his weight to loom over John. "Because I do worry my example might be too abstract; after all, I hardly make my way around Europe flicking countries, even if I can have their best friends do it for me! Maybe a more practical demonstration is needed to really..." Magnussen's gaze crawls leisurely over Sherlock, head to toe. "...drive the point home?"
Dread settles in Sherlock's gut like a stone. If Magnussen decides to threaten (or order John to threaten) life or limb, John is much more likely to balk and do something idiotic, like remember the gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers.
John shuffles his feet, darts a gaze in Sherlock’s direction which Sherlock studiously ignores. John scratches an eyebrow with the edge of his thumbnail, shifts his weight again. "Really, really not necessary. I get it, you’re a colossal prick who gets off on making people let you do degrading, humiliating things to them."
"Ah, that is good, John! Yes, and speaking of pricks," Magnussen repeats the word carefully, with amusement, "I wonder if you would remove yours from your trousers?"
"What the hell are you on about?" John demands with deadly calm.
"You seemed quite upset when I took a piss on the floor in Sherlock's grotty apartment," Magnussen mentions, seemingly apropos of nothing. Sherlock can see where this is going. Stupid! Whatever Magnussen coerces them into now, purely for his own sick entertainment, Sherlock has brought upon them both.
"That is something else I do, just a little thing--I look for 'tells,' and I use them to my advantage. So Sherlock is going to get on his knees," Magnussen explains, "and you are going to piss on him."
"Like hell I am!"
"Come now, John, think of Mary. What is a little uric acid between good friends?" Magnussen chuckles as he swirls the liquid in his glass.
"Sherlock--"
Slowly, with as much dignity as he can manage, Sherlock lowers himself to his knees on the carpet. "I'm sorry. Just...do it."
"You can't be serious," John protests, glancing uneasily from Sherlock to Magnussen, then back again.
Sherlock responds by sitting back on his heels, bracing his hands on his thighs.