Not as shippy as I wanted it to be, sorry anon… but hopefully the gist of it is there.
John feels as if he is under the earth, inside a collapsed mine shaft. The semtex vest stands in for the weight from a thousand tonnes of rock and sand, the sniper watching him serves the fear, and the sight of Sherlock - that provides the claustrophobia. Before, when he was led blindfolded into the smell of chlorine and the squeak of his shoes on tiles, he still felt in control, like a miner running for the exit shaft, convinced his feet will carry him those last twenty metres as the tunnel shakes around him. Now that Sherlock is here the parameters have changed. The tunnel is blocked. John's survival training is as much use as a shovel under a mountain.
They are both, as Lestrade would say, shit out of luck.
The radio in his ear speaks, and John signs to Sherlock, a parody of an interpreter. Evening. This is a turn-up, isn't it? Bet you never saw this coming.
He knows from the look on Sherlock's face that he has taken the bait (and Lestrade would add hook, line and sinker, because he's not a subtle man). When he peels back the vest to reveal the weight of the mountain that he is carrying, when the radio tells him to speak aloud, in what must look like garbage even to a lip-reader, "Gottle 'o geer--" Sherlock's hands speak at last, emphatic and broad. Stop it!
Sherlock spins, searching for some visual clue that a less observant man might have missed. His next words are almost torn through the air like he is brawling with an invisible foe. Who are you?
A yellowish light glints suddenly in the pool's water. The old bulbs in one of the corridors behind John have been switched on. Sherlock's gaze flicks to a point over John’s shoulder and he raises the Browning, but John has been instructed not to turn around. He listens to footsteps. For a long, long time - the time as counted by the miner under the mountain, alone and shaking with thirst - he hears nothing but those precise, patternless footprints. But Sherlock's eyes are focused and alight. He is listening-watching to signs John cannot see from a man John has only known as a slick voice in his ear. Every few moments Sherlock speaks with one hand, the other hovering next to the Browning's trigger, but it is only half a conversation.
John feels as if he is under the earth, inside a collapsed mine shaft. The semtex vest stands in for the weight from a thousand tonnes of rock and sand, the sniper watching him serves the fear, and the sight of Sherlock - that provides the claustrophobia. Before, when he was led blindfolded into the smell of chlorine and the squeak of his shoes on tiles, he still felt in control, like a miner running for the exit shaft, convinced his feet will carry him those last twenty metres as the tunnel shakes around him. Now that Sherlock is here the parameters have changed. The tunnel is blocked. John's survival training is as much use as a shovel under a mountain.
They are both, as Lestrade would say, shit out of luck.
The radio in his ear speaks, and John signs to Sherlock, a parody of an interpreter. Evening. This is a turn-up, isn't it? Bet you never saw this coming.
He knows from the look on Sherlock's face that he has taken the bait (and Lestrade would add hook, line and sinker, because he's not a subtle man). When he peels back the vest to reveal the weight of the mountain that he is carrying, when the radio tells him to speak aloud, in what must look like garbage even to a lip-reader, "Gottle 'o geer--" Sherlock's hands speak at last, emphatic and broad. Stop it!
Sherlock spins, searching for some visual clue that a less observant man might have missed. His next words are almost torn through the air like he is brawling with an invisible foe. Who are you?
A yellowish light glints suddenly in the pool's water. The old bulbs in one of the corridors behind John have been switched on. Sherlock's gaze flicks to a point over John’s shoulder and he raises the Browning, but John has been instructed not to turn around. He listens to footsteps. For a long, long time - the time as counted by the miner under the mountain, alone and shaking with thirst - he hears nothing but those precise, patternless footprints. But Sherlock's eyes are focused and alight. He is listening-watching to signs John cannot see from a man John has only known as a slick voice in his ear. Every few moments Sherlock speaks with one hand, the other hovering next to the Browning's trigger, but it is only half a conversation.
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