[arrrgh...this part going remarkably slow! Posting in smaller bursts to keep it going...]
Already in position across from the newspaper office, Sherlock gave a terse nod to John before picking up the phone.
On my way. SH
Newsroom hallway. Second floor. I'll be there, with bells and brass knobs on. -Jim
No time to lose, then. He needed to be seen entering the building by any henchmen positioned on the outside, but not seen exiting, and he had to get there before Moriarty. He was counting on his adversary's need to make a late, more theatrical entrance, (after Sherlock would have been building up anxiety waiting). He was confident he wouldn't show until his men were in place, but perhaps they already were. He wore the most incongruous outfit (compared to his normal dress) that could still fit under his clothing... shorts and a tank top layered underneath his usual tailored shirt and trousers... a bright yellow head sweatband, trainers, gym socks and a full plastic water bottle shoved into his coat pockets. He was grateful he had long ago strategised a greatcoat as a sort of visual trademark which had a dual purpose of concealing all sorts of items.
In building. Good. He headed to the lift and pushed the button just shy of the top floor (there might be some of Moriarty's agents on the top, searching for roof access). He popped out a frosted plastic ceiling tile and discarded his current wardrobe within the lift, next to the light fixture, relying on people's natural hesitancy to look straight up, then donned the replacement footwear and band. He exited the lift and took the stairs back down at a run, wetting his hair slightly with the water bottle so he would look like any other sweaty jogger when he exited the building.
Once outside, he bent down to stretch his calves, then took a gulp of the water, holding the bottle at a high angle, close to his face. He stayed in place long enough for anyone observing from the roof to notice, and subsequently dismiss, him. Then he went to the Underground station across the street, drinking water as he walked, looking exhausted from his theoretical run.
At the station, he grabbed a newspaper, turned to Sport, and sat on a bench, waiting. He gave his bollocks a quick scratch for good measure, and concentrated on being as un-Sherlock Holmes as possible
FILL 7/? Romeo to Juliet (Sherlock object sexual, Moriarty steals his beloved)
Already in position across from the newspaper office, Sherlock gave a terse nod to John before picking up the phone.
On my way. SH
Newsroom hallway. Second floor. I'll be there, with bells and brass knobs on. -Jim
No time to lose, then. He needed to be seen entering the building by any henchmen positioned on the outside, but not seen exiting, and he had to get there before Moriarty. He was counting on his adversary's need to make a late, more theatrical entrance, (after Sherlock would have been building up anxiety waiting). He was confident he wouldn't show until his men were in place, but perhaps they already were. He wore the most incongruous outfit (compared to his normal dress) that could still fit under his clothing... shorts and a tank top layered underneath his usual tailored shirt and trousers... a bright yellow head sweatband, trainers, gym socks and a full plastic water bottle shoved into his coat pockets. He was grateful he had long ago strategised a greatcoat as a sort of visual trademark which had a dual purpose of concealing all sorts of items.
In building. Good. He headed to the lift and pushed the button just shy of the top floor (there might be some of Moriarty's agents on the top, searching for roof access). He popped out a frosted plastic ceiling tile and discarded his current wardrobe within the lift, next to the light fixture, relying on people's natural hesitancy to look straight up, then donned the replacement footwear and band. He exited the lift and took the stairs back down at a run, wetting his hair slightly with the water bottle so he would look like any other sweaty jogger when he exited the building.
Once outside, he bent down to stretch his calves, then took a gulp of the water, holding the bottle at a high angle, close to his face. He stayed in place long enough for anyone observing from the roof to notice, and subsequently dismiss, him. Then he went to the Underground station across the street, drinking water as he walked, looking exhausted from his theoretical run.
At the station, he grabbed a newspaper, turned to Sport, and sat on a bench, waiting. He gave his bollocks a quick scratch for good measure, and concentrated on being as un-Sherlock Holmes as possible