Disguise, part 5c/?
anonymous
April 21 2011, 03:08:54 UTC
~*~
The sun peeks through dissolving clouds as people huddle on the street, voices carrying over the din of the crowd. John stands to the side, straddling a puddle and mentally tallying and categorizing the people waiting outside. While he's accounted for nearly everyone he can think of, concern tickles the edges of his mind and he's redone the count six times now.
He glances around: apart from the crowd of people and the screech of the approaching siren, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Taxicabs and cars rush past, adverts overuse exclamation marks to sell the latest products, people stop to buy magazines at the newsstand. John watches the attendant at the newsstand. He's favouring his right hand; it's tucked in his pocket while he uses his left to accept money and give change and then bag purchases. Curious. Every movement is fluid in its awkwardness, which must be why it caught his eye in the first place. John wonders why he keeps glancing across toward John's side of the street, so he turns his attention back to the people still waiting outside the surgery.
A blonde huddles near the side of the building, hastily rearranging something inside an unmatched satchel. John watches her for a moment, his curiosity peaked. She appears to be generally confident, but with a definite air of necessity surrounding her. The sleeve of her top slides off her shoulder in a flash of purple lace before she pulls the sleeve back up.
The purple swirls into his mind for a moment; it feels significant. John looks around again. His mind feels foggy, as though the answer is standing right at the edge of his peripheral vision, but he can't quite reach it. His eyes alight on the newsstand attendant, still assisting customers but with his attention across the street. John watches him reach for something with his right hand, flinch, and draw back as if in pain, and, and...
Last night. The kitchen. Sherlock grabbing a pot off the stove without an oven mitt, his eyes watering in pain. Then: running water and a bandage. John's admonishments about bloody hot things and second degree burns and you're lucky you live with a doctor, you bloody idiot. Then a muttered diatribe about how most humans learn not to grab for hot things when they're four years old and don't have to rely on forty-one year old doctors to teach them. And Sherlock oddly quiet through the entire ordeal.
Sherlock.
Everything swirls in his mind: purple and red and hot and heady, all together.
John looks up to see a whirl of ridiculous red as the blonde tries to tuck something back into her satchel against the breeze. It all clicks together, almost audibly, and John knows.
He knows.
The blonde -- Tina! -- catches his eye and drops her gaze just as quickly, then turns and hurries away, her satchel banging at her hip as she moves.
"Sherlock!" he calls across the street, then leaps across the puddle and takes off in pursuit of Tina.
The sun peeks through dissolving clouds as people huddle on the street, voices carrying over the din of the crowd. John stands to the side, straddling a puddle and mentally tallying and categorizing the people waiting outside. While he's accounted for nearly everyone he can think of, concern tickles the edges of his mind and he's redone the count six times now.
He glances around: apart from the crowd of people and the screech of the approaching siren, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Taxicabs and cars rush past, adverts overuse exclamation marks to sell the latest products, people stop to buy magazines at the newsstand. John watches the attendant at the newsstand. He's favouring his right hand; it's tucked in his pocket while he uses his left to accept money and give change and then bag purchases. Curious. Every movement is fluid in its awkwardness, which must be why it caught his eye in the first place. John wonders why he keeps glancing across toward John's side of the street, so he turns his attention back to the people still waiting outside the surgery.
A blonde huddles near the side of the building, hastily rearranging something inside an unmatched satchel. John watches her for a moment, his curiosity peaked. She appears to be generally confident, but with a definite air of necessity surrounding her. The sleeve of her top slides off her shoulder in a flash of purple lace before she pulls the sleeve back up.
The purple swirls into his mind for a moment; it feels significant. John looks around again. His mind feels foggy, as though the answer is standing right at the edge of his peripheral vision, but he can't quite reach it. His eyes alight on the newsstand attendant, still assisting customers but with his attention across the street. John watches him reach for something with his right hand, flinch, and draw back as if in pain, and, and...
Last night. The kitchen. Sherlock grabbing a pot off the stove without an oven mitt, his eyes watering in pain. Then: running water and a bandage. John's admonishments about bloody hot things and second degree burns and you're lucky you live with a doctor, you bloody idiot. Then a muttered diatribe about how most humans learn not to grab for hot things when they're four years old and don't have to rely on forty-one year old doctors to teach them. And Sherlock oddly quiet through the entire ordeal.
Sherlock.
Everything swirls in his mind: purple and red and hot and heady, all together.
John looks up to see a whirl of ridiculous red as the blonde tries to tuck something back into her satchel against the breeze. It all clicks together, almost audibly, and John knows.
He knows.
The blonde -- Tina! -- catches his eye and drops her gaze just as quickly, then turns and hurries away, her satchel banging at her hip as she moves.
"Sherlock!" he calls across the street, then leaps across the puddle and takes off in pursuit of Tina.
~*~
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