In a series of events that would surprise absolutely no one... Sherlock Holmes has not slept at all during the night. He has replayed the announcement several times, but it still seems hardly real. Mycroft has called it a war-- his work in London. The work he did before the Fall. For it was a fall, just as Moriarty had intended. Literal and figurative.
But if that was a war, it was a very different kind than this.
His jacket kept his wings mostly hidden from view, but they had not stopped flexing and contracting, shuddering then pulling in tight. Always moving, revealing his nervousness even as he kept an utterly calm exterior. John would know what he was doing. The terrain wasn't Afghanistan, but... Once a soldier, always a soldier.
Yotsuba? He'd keep an eye on her. He'd make sure nothing happened to her.
Sherlock looks up from his seat in his armchair. A knock at the door. He almost remains silent, lets them go on their way. But... no. Best not to do that, he decides.]
no subject
But if that was a war, it was a very different kind than this.
His jacket kept his wings mostly hidden from view, but they had not stopped flexing and contracting, shuddering then pulling in tight. Always moving, revealing his nervousness even as he kept an utterly calm exterior. John would know what he was doing. The terrain wasn't Afghanistan, but... Once a soldier, always a soldier.
Yotsuba? He'd keep an eye on her. He'd make sure nothing happened to her.
Sherlock looks up from his seat in his armchair. A knock at the door. He almost remains silent, lets them go on their way. But... no. Best not to do that, he decides.]
Come in.
[He's not getting up to answer the door.]