[ John doesn't take a step back for Sherlock's step forward, but he doesn't mirror the movement, either. The time until Sherlock speaks is spent watching him blankly, almost equally warily. Sherlock's looking at him like he's a skittish animal that's going to be frightened off. Almost absurd enough for a smile of its own, if he could get his face to cooperate. ]
Made an impression. [ It comes out numb, quiet, automatic and aimed at Sherlock's left knee because John is shaking his head. Slow, methodical, ultimately ineffective, but he does it anyway and tries to dredge up anything he can think of. He can't seem to bring himself to feel in one direction or the other, he can't think (shock, some part of him is saying, and isn't that the most ridiculous notion, wouldn't it just figure?), can't do anything but stare at the man standing in front of him and keep shaking his head.
No, no, no, no.
Yes. Yes, there he is, right there.
Oh god. ]
Sherlock. [ He says it again and it's all weak confirmation, everything feeling so much slower for no real reason. The clipboard at some point has hit the ground and he's not entirely sure when that was, just knows that he can see it very clearly with the way his posture is crumbling, surprisingly clearly for the fact that his vision seems determined to deteriorate into television static (and there go the knees, there goes any real coherent thought- he can almost literally feel something crashing down on him, taking him with it, down where all the half-finished words are- you said goodbye, I saw you jump, I'm sorry, you're alive, where have you been). He feels sick, is he going to be sick, no, of course not, no, he's not going to be that hopeless. John's vaguely aware of trying to stumble to the nearest wall to catch himself on his right side, entirely intent on gathering his composure and pushing onto his own two feet again, but it doesn't quite work out the way he wants it to; he sags, he buckles, he doesn't understand, and when his eyes roll back and he officially gives up the fight to make sense of any of this it's as far from graceful as a fall can really be.
Hold please. Service has been temporarily disconnected due to technical errors. ]
no subject
Made an impression. [ It comes out numb, quiet, automatic and aimed at Sherlock's left knee because John is shaking his head. Slow, methodical, ultimately ineffective, but he does it anyway and tries to dredge up anything he can think of. He can't seem to bring himself to feel in one direction or the other, he can't think (shock, some part of him is saying, and isn't that the most ridiculous notion, wouldn't it just figure?), can't do anything but stare at the man standing in front of him and keep shaking his head.
No, no, no, no.
Yes. Yes, there he is, right there.
Oh god. ]
Sherlock. [ He says it again and it's all weak confirmation, everything feeling so much slower for no real reason. The clipboard at some point has hit the ground and he's not entirely sure when that was, just knows that he can see it very clearly with the way his posture is crumbling, surprisingly clearly for the fact that his vision seems determined to deteriorate into television static (and there go the knees, there goes any real coherent thought- he can almost literally feel something crashing down on him, taking him with it, down where all the half-finished words are- you said goodbye, I saw you jump, I'm sorry, you're alive, where have you been). He feels sick, is he going to be sick, no, of course not, no, he's not going to be that hopeless. John's vaguely aware of trying to stumble to the nearest wall to catch himself on his right side, entirely intent on gathering his composure and pushing onto his own two feet again, but it doesn't quite work out the way he wants it to; he sags, he buckles, he doesn't understand, and when his eyes roll back and he officially gives up the fight to make sense of any of this it's as far from graceful as a fall can really be.
Hold please. Service has been temporarily disconnected due to technical errors. ]