For the moment, it's a relief. He knows that voice, and he knows that the hold on his wing is gone. It doesn't matter that Moriarty is in hysterics. He's heard that act before. It's the reporter's flat all over again. What he cares about for a moment is that the world stop spinning. He slumps down before it does, vision blurring badly as light and sound daze him. He still feels sick... but there's nothing left in his stomach. His shoulders shudder, and the sound catches in his throat, but all that comes is a dry cough as he pushes himself to his feet.
He's still in pain. He's still wounded. He's still ill. But the fire in his blood is gone, and the cloud over his mind is lifting. He can turn toward the woman with a cold, harsh look. A look that seems to sum her up in seconds and dismiss her as worthless. Instead, his eyes sweep to Moriarty. Cowering in a corner, Richard Brook all over again. For now, it's a negated threat. He won't attack. He won't ruin his act now.
But there's one more.
Sherlock Holmes fixes his gaze on John Watson. On the man who demanded his release. He swallows hard, unsteady on his feet and shaking ever so slightly. But he was trying to hide that. Trying to disguise the frailty of the body, the damage done by the small shard of glass. He tries to speak, but, for once, nothing comes. He only manages another swallow and nods his head slightly.
no subject
For the moment, it's a relief. He knows that voice, and he knows that the hold on his wing is gone. It doesn't matter that Moriarty is in hysterics. He's heard that act before. It's the reporter's flat all over again. What he cares about for a moment is that the world stop spinning. He slumps down before it does, vision blurring badly as light and sound daze him. He still feels sick... but there's nothing left in his stomach. His shoulders shudder, and the sound catches in his throat, but all that comes is a dry cough as he pushes himself to his feet.
He's still in pain. He's still wounded. He's still ill. But the fire in his blood is gone, and the cloud over his mind is lifting. He can turn toward the woman with a cold, harsh look. A look that seems to sum her up in seconds and dismiss her as worthless. Instead, his eyes sweep to Moriarty. Cowering in a corner, Richard Brook all over again. For now, it's a negated threat. He won't attack. He won't ruin his act now.
But there's one more.
Sherlock Holmes fixes his gaze on John Watson. On the man who demanded his release. He swallows hard, unsteady on his feet and shaking ever so slightly. But he was trying to hide that. Trying to disguise the frailty of the body, the damage done by the small shard of glass. He tries to speak, but, for once, nothing comes. He only manages another swallow and nods his head slightly.