[Jane's not in for a line about sentiment. Sherlock may not understand the bond that drew Jane and Angela together, might never share that, in particular, with another human being.
But justice. Loyalty. Doing what has to be done in the name of protection, even of a memory.
That, at this point, he finally understands.
He pulls out a cigarette, and slides the pack over to Jane.]
[It's a small gesture, but Jane is still breathless, still panting as though he's been running.
And he has. For over ten years. His hand starts to shake when it hovers over the package, and as his fingers close... Compulsion. He knows what it is but--
His eyes water briefly, his lips press together. He might cry. It's joyous, relieving, but lost. The emotion evaporates as quickly as it comes, whether from the habit of suppression or because there's nothing there anymore.
His bare skin was on Red John's throat. He felt the fight to breathe, the pathetic clinging to life, its struggle, then that pulse hammering before it stopped. It's a moment he'll replay at will, if he chooses.
Jane breathes again, looks out at a distant point, eyes unfocused. He didn't expect to live this far.]
[Sherlock focuses on his face for only a moment before his eyes flick down and away. It's a terrible -- and normally tedious -- thing to witness, the display of emotion. The tightening of the eyes and the shaky breath. Spare me, he typically thinks when a client starts in on it; even here, his lips press together in a way that suggests he's merely tolerating this, but still his gaze is averted down in a way that's almost deferential. Respectful.
He lights his cigarette. Sets the lighter neatly on the table once it's done. His first drag leaves him looking at Patrick again, trying to catch his eye -- or then again, no. He sighs through his nose, settles back further in his seat.]
[He toes his shoes off now, an automatic motion. His head tips back and for a second, he's on a beach, warm sun on his face. The sand is warm and grainy between his toes.]
[His eyes slip shut, and he smiles faintly. Like a plant tipping towards the sun, stretching for its rays. Just there, as the waves chop and the lights glint, he almost sees her, her silhouette and dark hair. For a moment, he forgets to breathe.
[And that's enough to nudge him into worrying. Still, he keeps his tone gentle. He doesn't want to break the trance, necessarily -- if that's what that even is. But he doesn't want Jane getting lost in his own mind.]
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But justice. Loyalty. Doing what has to be done in the name of protection, even of a memory.
That, at this point, he finally understands.
He pulls out a cigarette, and slides the pack over to Jane.]
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And he has. For over ten years. His hand starts to shake when it hovers over the package, and as his fingers close... Compulsion. He knows what it is but--
His eyes water briefly, his lips press together. He might cry. It's joyous, relieving, but lost. The emotion evaporates as quickly as it comes, whether from the habit of suppression or because there's nothing there anymore.
His bare skin was on Red John's throat. He felt the fight to breathe, the pathetic clinging to life, its struggle, then that pulse hammering before it stopped. It's a moment he'll replay at will, if he chooses.
Jane breathes again, looks out at a distant point, eyes unfocused. He didn't expect to live this far.]
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He lights his cigarette. Sets the lighter neatly on the table once it's done. His first drag leaves him looking at Patrick again, trying to catch his eye -- or then again, no. He sighs through his nose, settles back further in his seat.]
Going to sit?
I don't have enough icons for this
I did it.
neither do i =c
[Simply stated. His lips and throat work in a small swallow. Jane's journey his over, while his is just about to come back around.]
Where're you going to go now?
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[He never thought about it. In fact, most of the time he'd assumed that he would be dead. Then it hadn't been an assumption for a few moments.]
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[He can imagine that much. The freedom. Complete freedom from connections, from obligations, from any ties whatsoever. Work done, time to move on.]
Seaside?
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[Not be trapped on a ship.]
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[Tiny, tight little smile. It melts into something more genuine after a second. The smile's less pronounced, but it's still in his eyes.]
Take your shoes off. Dig your toes into the sand.
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Potentially worrying. Patrick? -- he almost says. But something stops him.
He keeps musing instead.]
Blue sky. Sun on your face, reflected off the waves...
What are you going to do now?
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Angela...Annie.
If he says it aloud, he's not aware.]
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Patrick?
omg I just got the most sladfja idea
[It's a half second late, not fully present.]
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He parrots back the question:] What am I going to do next?
[Like it's a prompt or something.]