Sherlock firmly believed neither of them had slept more than a few hours, but John was up and fully dressed before Sherlock woke, and busy checking the room for any personal items, even though they had brought none. Sherlock continued to observe whilst feigning sleep, glancing at John's reflection in the hotel mirror, directly across from the bed.
A few minutes later, Sherlock yawned conspicuously, and John immediately turned and handed him his neatly-folded shirt and trousers. After they were both dressed, John went to open the door, but instead doubled back and checked the bathroom one last time. Sherlock considered mentioning they had nothing more than the clothes on their back and the mobile and wallet which remained in his jacket pocket, but decided against saying anything which could influence John's behaviour, in favour of pure observation. As they exited the room, John walked a few steps behind Sherlock until they reached the front door, when he moved ahead to hold it open. As Sherlock muttered a thank you, John surged forward and rushed to the kerb to hail a cab.
Sherlock forced himself not to continue looking at John, closing his eyes during the ride. Something had shifted today. John had stopped making furtive, expectant glances at him. He initially considered that to be a positive sign, but realised it was far too early to tell if it was for the better. He debated the merits and consequences of letting John open the cab door for him once they arrived at the train station, and decided he would permit it for now. Once they were in more familiar surroundings (familiar in theory, anyway) he would try to get him to curtail that sort of behaviour.
He couldn't help but wryly observe that John was rather focused on doors. The other shoe would drop... the next level of servitude, emerge. Sherlock disliked not knowing what to expect. Cooking and cleaning, probably. He wanted to engage John in some sort of conversation, but remained uncertain of what to say. Likely he will take on the role of my housekeeper and I'll have to... oh... His eyes shot open. Mrs Hudson.
Of course, Mycroft had informed her that Sherlock would be returning-- it wouldn't do to show up at her front door and give the elderly woman a heart attack, seeing a dead man-- but she wouldn't be expecting John. Would be delighted to see him. And his non-reaction to her would be... problematic? Maybe if Mycroft... Sherlock shook his head slowly, scarcely believing his own utter stupidity. Had he completely forgotten how to think? Clearly he was focussing on nothing but John's immediate well-being. Did Mycroft think John was still searching for him? Had he already sent someone out to retrieve John? Had he...been...following John? Known where he was?
He thought back to their brief phone conversation. Mycroft had always believed the end justified the means. Even when he taught Sherlock how to play chess, he had committed a rather inelegant queen swap, which Sherlock had protested, but Mycroft only stated rather coldly that the objective was to win and the swap allowed it to occur five, possibly even six, moves earlier.
Sherlock struggled to keep his rising fury in check. It would not help John to see him this agitated.
Outside the station, John hurried out before the cab had fully stopped in order to open the door for Sherlock. This time he nodded and said nothing. John seemed more at ease. They headed toward the platform and waited on a bench for the arrival. A short, heavy-set man with dark hair and a trim beard took a seat on the far side of bench and played with his daughter, who looked to be about three-and-a-half, while his wife fished tickets out of her purse. John grew agitated and shifted his body as close to Sherlock's as possible, away from the man. Sherlock studied the stranger's features carefully before suggesting to John that they move closer to the platform. John nodded quickly and was up and away before Sherlock could rise.
FILL 11/? "138" (John in slave auction)
A few minutes later, Sherlock yawned conspicuously, and John immediately turned and handed him his neatly-folded shirt and trousers. After they were both dressed, John went to open the door, but instead doubled back and checked the bathroom one last time. Sherlock considered mentioning they had nothing more than the clothes on their back and the mobile and wallet which remained in his jacket pocket, but decided against saying anything which could influence John's behaviour, in favour of pure observation. As they exited the room, John walked a few steps behind Sherlock until they reached the front door, when he moved ahead to hold it open. As Sherlock muttered a thank you, John surged forward and rushed to the kerb to hail a cab.
Sherlock forced himself not to continue looking at John, closing his eyes during the ride. Something had shifted today. John had stopped making furtive, expectant glances at him. He initially considered that to be a positive sign, but realised it was far too early to tell if it was for the better. He debated the merits and consequences of letting John open the cab door for him once they arrived at the train station, and decided he would permit it for now. Once they were in more familiar surroundings (familiar in theory, anyway) he would try to get him to curtail that sort of behaviour.
He couldn't help but wryly observe that John was rather focused on doors. The other shoe would drop... the next level of servitude, emerge. Sherlock disliked not knowing what to expect. Cooking and cleaning, probably. He wanted to engage John in some sort of conversation, but remained uncertain of what to say. Likely he will take on the role of my housekeeper and I'll have to... oh... His eyes shot open. Mrs Hudson.
Of course, Mycroft had informed her that Sherlock would be returning-- it wouldn't do to show up at her front door and give the elderly woman a heart attack, seeing a dead man-- but she wouldn't be expecting John. Would be delighted to see him. And his non-reaction to her would be... problematic? Maybe if Mycroft... Sherlock shook his head slowly, scarcely believing his own utter stupidity. Had he completely forgotten how to think? Clearly he was focussing on nothing but John's immediate well-being. Did Mycroft think John was still searching for him? Had he already sent someone out to retrieve John? Had he...been...following John? Known where he was?
He thought back to their brief phone conversation. Mycroft had always believed the end justified the means. Even when he taught Sherlock how to play chess, he had committed a rather inelegant queen swap, which Sherlock had protested, but Mycroft only stated rather coldly that the objective was to win and the swap allowed it to occur five, possibly even six, moves earlier.
Sherlock struggled to keep his rising fury in check. It would not help John to see him this agitated.
Outside the station, John hurried out before the cab had fully stopped in order to open the door for Sherlock. This time he nodded and said nothing. John seemed more at ease. They headed toward the platform and waited on a bench for the arrival. A short, heavy-set man with dark hair and a trim beard took a seat on the far side of bench and played with his daughter, who looked to be about three-and-a-half, while his wife fished tickets out of her purse. John grew agitated and shifted his body as close to Sherlock's as possible, away from the man. Sherlock studied the stranger's features carefully before suggesting to John that they move closer to the platform. John nodded quickly and was up and away before Sherlock could rise.