[ The returned "hello" is halfway out of his mouth when he looks up, which is approximately the point where it breaks off and falls to the ground where another hundred half-started words have met their grave before. The familiar voice registers only belatedly, something dim in the back of his mind while he's blanching, gripping the clipboard until his knuckles are white (if still doesn't feel hard enough to be satisfying; he almost wants to press until the bone snaps, until they're jutting out of the skin, and that would be when he woke up).
Sherlock Holmes, standing in the room with him, dressed like an average human being and breathing, like it's not impossible, like he's got every right to be. Sherlock Holmes.
John's swallowing hard against a very dry throat, suddenly, trying his hardest not to look completely lost and reeling or pained or- god, or just desperate and five seconds from losing the typically reliable privilege of working knees.
It would be a lie to say he's succeeding, but nothing can stop him from trying to act like he is. King of the stiff upper lip since he hit 18. ]
Sherlock. [ It comes out as more of a question than he'd wanted. ]
no subject
Sherlock Holmes, standing in the room with him, dressed like an average human being and breathing, like it's not impossible, like he's got every right to be. Sherlock Holmes.
John's swallowing hard against a very dry throat, suddenly, trying his hardest not to look completely lost and reeling or pained or- god, or just desperate and five seconds from losing the typically reliable privilege of working knees.
It would be a lie to say he's succeeding, but nothing can stop him from trying to act like he is. King of the stiff upper lip since he hit 18. ]
Sherlock. [ It comes out as more of a question than he'd wanted. ]