“Don’t worry,” says the wardrobe consultant holding up the Semtex-laden parka.
It has a smell, a volatile, plasticky, dirty putty sort of smell.
“I’m. I don’t think I signed up for this,” I say. There are three wardrobe consultants and two script consultants standing around watching. I notice that they look like very efficient people.
“He won’t let anything happen to you,” one of them says, and I wonder if they’ve been paying attention, if they’ve noticed how very much Sherlock does not care about me, or about anything besides the promise of a new puzzle. Don’t make people into heroes, he said, and I wonder if he’d just as soon not have me around, putting that kind of burden on him.
A door opens, and I’m the only one that looks to see who’s come in. It’s Mycroft, but he’s wearing his big-shot TV producer button-down and designer jeans, not his Sherlock’s Big Brother intimidating suit.
“John,” he says.
“That’s not my name,” I reply.
“I’m speaking to you in that capacity. I’m here because I suspected that you might find this evening’s wardrobe selection a little disconcerting in its…realism.”
“You could say that,” I reply. I’m starting to get angry.
“Good,” he answers, eyebrows raised.
It takes me a second to parse.
“What, you…you want me to be disconcerted?”
“I want you to be scared shitless,” he says, showing no emotion beyond the frank desire to communicate. “I want you to know that I give zero fucks what happens to you. I want you to know who is in charge of you and Sherlock and this entire operation.”
“You couldn’t have just sent me a fortune cookie?”
“They don’t have quite the same gravitas, you must admit.”
“So why now? What are you trying to achieve with this?”
“Later tonight, something is going to try to happen. You are not going to let it.”
“What kind of something?”
“You’ll know. Take care, Dr. Watson. The world is watching.”
He doesn’t carry an umbrella in real life, but as he swans back out of the secure staging area, I can imagine him swinging it with overdramatic nonchalance.
Fill Part 15
“Don’t worry,” says the wardrobe consultant holding up the Semtex-laden parka.
It has a smell, a volatile, plasticky, dirty putty sort of smell.
“I’m. I don’t think I signed up for this,” I say. There are three wardrobe consultants and two script consultants standing around watching. I notice that they look like very efficient people.
“He won’t let anything happen to you,” one of them says, and I wonder if they’ve been paying attention, if they’ve noticed how very much Sherlock does not care about me, or about anything besides the promise of a new puzzle. Don’t make people into heroes, he said, and I wonder if he’d just as soon not have me around, putting that kind of burden on him.
A door opens, and I’m the only one that looks to see who’s come in. It’s Mycroft, but he’s wearing his big-shot TV producer button-down and designer jeans, not his Sherlock’s Big Brother intimidating suit.
“John,” he says.
“That’s not my name,” I reply.
“I’m speaking to you in that capacity. I’m here because I suspected that you might find this evening’s wardrobe selection a little disconcerting in its…realism.”
“You could say that,” I reply. I’m starting to get angry.
“Good,” he answers, eyebrows raised.
It takes me a second to parse.
“What, you…you want me to be disconcerted?”
“I want you to be scared shitless,” he says, showing no emotion beyond the frank desire to communicate. “I want you to know that I give zero fucks what happens to you. I want you to know who is in charge of you and Sherlock and this entire operation.”
“You couldn’t have just sent me a fortune cookie?”
“They don’t have quite the same gravitas, you must admit.”
“So why now? What are you trying to achieve with this?”
“Later tonight, something is going to try to happen. You are not going to let it.”
“What kind of something?”
“You’ll know. Take care, Dr. Watson. The world is watching.”
He doesn’t carry an umbrella in real life, but as he swans back out of the secure staging area, I can imagine him swinging it with overdramatic nonchalance.