[ Megamind's mutiny, that had been one thing, with his and Abderdeen's work on his encryptions. The demons. His wall, and his constant mapping of the ship, his profiling of the people therein. His own withdrawal had taken the wind out of his sails for far too long, and was still something that twinged at his mind and ached at his bones to this day, no matter how long ago it was. All of this and it still didn't seem enough excuse for him to have not known about Watson's presence. ]
[ For a time in Holmes' life, a rare one to which Watson is so very rarely held privy, Holmes looks nervous. His fingers pick at each other, and he's scratch marks on the back of his hands from the other ways his anxiety has begun to take its toll on its body. With limited tobacco, with no narcotics, with no cases, the man has been inescapably and irrefutably been driving himself mad. ]
[ There's a part of him at this very moment that's not even particularly sure Watson is HERE. Perhaps there's just a portion of him that aches for the man's company so badly that he's imagining it all on his own. ]
Nothing, [ is his answer to Watson's question, and it's defeated, it's worn, it's the weariness of a ninety-year-old man who's gone to death and back, rather than his actuality. ] Absolutely nothing, and what- are you doing here?
[ At once he's hounding forward towards Watson, eyes wide and bloodshot, and he grabs the man by the lapels, shakes a bit firmly as if to check if he IS real, if he's NOT some sort of dream, hallucination, his finally succumbing to his own madness. But the cloth doesn't dissipate in his fingers, and there's warmth beneath those fingers. For the first time, Holmes' eyes meet Watson's, incredulous, a bit wounded. ]
all friends argue with their legs around each other's heads!!
[ For a time in Holmes' life, a rare one to which Watson is so very rarely held privy, Holmes looks nervous. His fingers pick at each other, and he's scratch marks on the back of his hands from the other ways his anxiety has begun to take its toll on its body. With limited tobacco, with no narcotics, with no cases, the man has been inescapably and irrefutably been driving himself mad. ]
[ There's a part of him at this very moment that's not even particularly sure Watson is HERE. Perhaps there's just a portion of him that aches for the man's company so badly that he's imagining it all on his own. ]
Nothing, [ is his answer to Watson's question, and it's defeated, it's worn, it's the weariness of a ninety-year-old man who's gone to death and back, rather than his actuality. ] Absolutely nothing, and what- are you doing here?
[ At once he's hounding forward towards Watson, eyes wide and bloodshot, and he grabs the man by the lapels, shakes a bit firmly as if to check if he IS real, if he's NOT some sort of dream, hallucination, his finally succumbing to his own madness. But the cloth doesn't dissipate in his fingers, and there's warmth beneath those fingers. For the first time, Holmes' eyes meet Watson's, incredulous, a bit wounded. ]
John?