Come have a drink with John~
WHO: Dr. John Watson and... you, if you like! As long as you are of legal age to drink, I guess.
WHERE: The most pub-looking bar John can find within a walkable radius of his flat
WHEN: After moving in with Sherlock to their new place in the City
WARNINGS: None really. John's a fairly well-behaved drunk. Mostly.
SUMMARY: John's scouting out a watering hole. Living with Sherlock, he gets the feeling he's going to need it.
FORMAT: Up to you! I'm going to do a brief prose intro, but I don't mind any format of tag.
John doubted Sherlock had even noticed his absence- which was fine, really, god alone knew he would never have lasted this long if he took personal offence at Sherlock's eccentricities. It was just that after a while, being monologued at while trying to relax did his head in, and the last thing that flat needed was for the two of them to christen it with a blazing row.
This city, John realised, was slowly driving Sherlock mad. It had been better since their case, of course, but this place had none of the boundaries that Sherlock could usually rely on, and as much as the lanky bastard would protest to the contrary, John knew that having the carpet whipped out from under his feet like that had been hard.
He also knew, thanks to the months of awkwardly stumbling counselling sessions he'd had to attend as part of his rehabilitation, that he was simply using Sherlock's discomfort to frame his own- but that level of introspection could wait. It wasn't, he decided, helpful.
With that in mind, he slipped into the first bar he found that looked like it might follow at least some of the rules of a pub back home and gave it a brief, paranoid scan to decide which of the many empty tables provided the best route to the door, the bar and the bog while simultaneously keeping all the other tables and the door in view- an automatic reaction that he mentally berated himself for as soon as he caught himself doing it. Habits could be broken.
Steeling himself with a polite smile for the bartender he bought himself a pint and in a spontaneous fit of inward defiance, settled on a stool at the bar rather than hiding himself in a corner-- instantly regretting it, of course, as he could feel the door at his back.
He'd just sit here for a bit, write up the Black Widow case, something like that. It wasn't as if Stamford was here to fill in the silence. If only he'd brought the laptop...
WHERE: The most pub-looking bar John can find within a walkable radius of his flat
WHEN: After moving in with Sherlock to their new place in the City
WARNINGS: None really. John's a fairly well-behaved drunk. Mostly.
SUMMARY: John's scouting out a watering hole. Living with Sherlock, he gets the feeling he's going to need it.
FORMAT: Up to you! I'm going to do a brief prose intro, but I don't mind any format of tag.
John doubted Sherlock had even noticed his absence- which was fine, really, god alone knew he would never have lasted this long if he took personal offence at Sherlock's eccentricities. It was just that after a while, being monologued at while trying to relax did his head in, and the last thing that flat needed was for the two of them to christen it with a blazing row.
This city, John realised, was slowly driving Sherlock mad. It had been better since their case, of course, but this place had none of the boundaries that Sherlock could usually rely on, and as much as the lanky bastard would protest to the contrary, John knew that having the carpet whipped out from under his feet like that had been hard.
He also knew, thanks to the months of awkwardly stumbling counselling sessions he'd had to attend as part of his rehabilitation, that he was simply using Sherlock's discomfort to frame his own- but that level of introspection could wait. It wasn't, he decided, helpful.
With that in mind, he slipped into the first bar he found that looked like it might follow at least some of the rules of a pub back home and gave it a brief, paranoid scan to decide which of the many empty tables provided the best route to the door, the bar and the bog while simultaneously keeping all the other tables and the door in view- an automatic reaction that he mentally berated himself for as soon as he caught himself doing it. Habits could be broken.
Steeling himself with a polite smile for the bartender he bought himself a pint and in a spontaneous fit of inward defiance, settled on a stool at the bar rather than hiding himself in a corner-- instantly regretting it, of course, as he could feel the door at his back.
He'd just sit here for a bit, write up the Black Widow case, something like that. It wasn't as if Stamford was here to fill in the silence. If only he'd brought the laptop...