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There were some times (a lot of times, if you got down to it) when John just. Did not want to enter this flat. It wasn't out of fear for his life or anything so melodramatic like that, as Sherlock Holmes was a creature, that was for certain, and though he didn't have quite the accurate adjectives to pin just what creature that was yet, he was still a Sherlock Holmes. He was something John hadn't dealt with before in the slightest, which constantly kept him on his toes, but he was... adjusting. Something like it.
It didn't make standing at the base of the stairs and hearing crashing noises from within any less harrowing.
John had grocery bags hanging off either arm, he had his lip sucked between his teeth, and he could hear voices from inside. Or a voice? Was Sherlock answering his own-- discussion, no, okay, John just needed to stop saying to himself that this was it, that this was the moment where Sherlock couldn't possibly get himself to a plane any stranger, because it was like the idiot just knew what he was thinking and deigned himself to go up and beyond the call of the Weirdo Threshold and.
He took the stairs, two at a time. The bags were cutting into his arms. "How long have you been at this? Exactly?"
It didn't make standing at the base of the stairs and hearing crashing noises from within any less harrowing.
John had grocery bags hanging off either arm, he had his lip sucked between his teeth, and he could hear voices from inside. Or a voice? Was Sherlock answering his own-- discussion, no, okay, John just needed to stop saying to himself that this was it, that this was the moment where Sherlock couldn't possibly get himself to a plane any stranger, because it was like the idiot just knew what he was thinking and deigned himself to go up and beyond the call of the Weirdo Threshold and.
He took the stairs, two at a time. The bags were cutting into his arms. "How long have you been at this? Exactly?"
