ataraxion | 001

The surprise was plain on John's face as he was grabbed, as well as the protest. Ow, Sherlock. But the other's clear distress makes John allow it, brows furrowing with utmost seriousness as the other tells him to think back to the comments on his blog.

Grab the Semtex.

"Sherlock," His hands lifted, carefully wrapping around the younger man's arms just above his elbows. His grip was not crushing, but it was snug, almost reassuring, except for the fact that it was trying to lightly push the other's arms back, get the detective to loosen his hold a bit. "Settle down. Are you certain it's Moriarty? Let me see the text."

He handed John Dave's messages.

"What else could JM stand for? Now, this could either be the most insufferable human being save for myself or utter genius on Moriarty's part. The plan I've so cleverly devised within the span of a few minutes is simple,"

He sits on the bed of their quarters. His legs folded up; determination twinkling in his eye.

"You lend me your gun-,"

"--Absolutely not." John cuts him off. Sherlock is a terrible shot - he doesn't even know how to hold the pistol correctly.

He flickers through the conversation, still wearing the same look of concentration before it slackens some.

"It reads more like a kid to me," He replied, shaking his head. He tapped in a return message, before looking back to Sherlock. "Moriarty never crossed me as crass. Psychopathic and disturbingly obsessed with you, yes, but I can't see him insulting you like this."

His features hardened a little, "And if it is him, and not one of the people reading the blog, then he's got no friends to fall back on here."

Another text came in, and John temporarily turned his attention back to the phone, typing away.

"Definitely not Moriarty. Sherlock, this is a teenager," He sighed, looking over his friend. "I didn't think so at first, but that tank's done a number on your head. Why don't you try sleeping for a bit?"

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