man you guys suck at tango chat.
Tori is out, Kels is at work, Meg is poor.
… If I’m still awake when two of you return we’re doing this.
helenareiske said: As in twenty minutes from now? I won’t be there.
No Tori, as in 50 minutes away. It is currently 9.42pm GMT.
tango chat commencing 10.30pm GMT.
EST = -5
CST = -6
PST = -7
On Tori’s page. FYI.
Unlike Sherlock, Victor had chosen to change upon arriving, simply for the refreshed feeling that was likely more manifest than by any actual reason. He had placed his bag against the wall upon arriving already and taken out his phone, scanning for a moment through any missed calls or texts when he was on the plane. There were two from his father’s receptionist about various doctor’s appointments of his that she knew Victor kept straight, and he texted back immediately. The remaining calls were from Elizabeth and his father. He would return those later. He sighed, adjusting his phone in hand, staring at his reflection in its gleaming surface.
He’d had his qualms about leaving the country for so long. Granted, it was hardly a week, but his father’s health had begun a steady decline that Victor wasn’t sure it was advisable for him to miss.Maybe this had been selfish. Maybe this all…he thought about a certain winter morning not all too long ago, and warmingly cold ivory skin and a strange, aloof distance, and then shook his head violently. He started unbuttoning his shirt to change it quickly for another before Sherlock arrived, which he knew he wouldn’t delay much in doing, likely not finding a reason to change like Victor was unless it was practical.
He was halfway through fastening the buttons when the door swung open, and Victor shook his head and finished while he faced away before turning, picking up his light black coat. “Maintenant, je suis,” he said with a raise of his eyebrow and a sideways grin, pocketing his phone nonchalantly, as though he hadn’t just been caught in a moral struggle.
Sherlock always noticed, but that didn’t stop him from trying.
“Come on, then. I’m sure you’ll want to slip away soon enough, so we best at least show our faces to Swan before you embark on whatever ill-advised journey you have in mind,” he teased, zipping up his bag and shrugging on his coat before picking up his card key and nudging Sherlock to leave the room. He locked it behind him, and together they headed down the stairs, opting for it rather than the elevator - it spoke to their preference of control, in a way - to head down to the lobby where Swan gave them A Look. And then they were stepping out of the hotel among the others into the lightly cool early spring air.
“They say the air tastes different here.” Victor raised his eyebrows at his companion again, ever expressive. “What do you think?”
Sherlock let his eyes dip to Victor’s hands, catching the movement of a disappearing phone. Adorable, he thought that he could hide the object of his discomfort. Probably family members checking up to make sure he was safe. Of course, family members meant his father and that would mean the other youth stood worrying. A moral dilemma; pretend he hadn’t noticed, or make a comment? Nothing appropriate immediately came to mind, and just like that the moment had passed as gently as a cloud rolls over the earth. He smiled amiably, a strangely relaxed and easy going nature seeming to surround the young student. It was the change of city, the return to somewhere so very familiar, it sat about him naturally and let him remember those few times in his childhood that he and his family were not at ends. It had been too long since he’d returned.
“It would be more interesting to just abandon him and let him complain at a later date, however,” he let the sentence trail off and hang, taking the lead from Victor’s room and padding down and out of their hotel. He didn’t even offer the already annoyed professor any form of smug look nor really acknowledge he was there. Victor could do that.
The doors opened out onto the main road, one where people ambled by for so many purposes, or sometimes they just ambled because they could.
At Victor’s question, he immediately inhaled - softly so as not to attract too much attention or look worrying - and smiled.
“I think it tastes of home, Victor.” Sherlock offered honestly, a moment of rare contentment settling on his features.
But then, they were off. He murmured a quiet “come on,” to Victor to ensure that the blonde didn’t get left behind, but that was as far as it went. Quick and purposeful steps carried him through the streets, a few detours took him up back alleys and through a few snickets. The journey took only fifteen minutes to cover, but that was with Sherlock’s long stride. A shorter or less determined man would have found it significantly longer.
He paused against a shop front to put him out of the way of the passing people, glancing at his friend with a faint smile.
“Sorry for the rush, but I didn’t want to chance the others would follow us.” He explained softly, not that he felt he needed to, but simply to offer an explanation.
Across the road sat a small little cafe, hardly busy but it looked comely enough. It was there that Sherlock lead his dutiful friend, holding the door a moment just so he could step in.
”Bonjour, Alain.” The dark hair youth rumbled to the man over the counter. He wasn’t much older than thirty, but had been a young man fresh in business when Sherlock had last visited the country. There was the hint of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and a receding hairline now, but those muddy brown eyes were just as perceptive as before.
“Sherlock? Il est bon de vous voir!” He e erupted coming around from the counter to shake hands.
”ça va? quoi vous ramène?” The Frenchman was full of questions, but Sherlock waved them away.
”ça vas bein, merci. Tel est mon ami, Victor. Il français n’est pas très grande,” Sherlock shared an almost alien laugh with this stranger who clearly still remembered the inquisitive and somewhat rude boy who never left his shop when it had opened.
“Ah, boujour Victor, bonjour.” The amiable Frenchman offered a firm handshake, all smiles.
”Que buvez-vous?” Alain asked Sherlock, ushering them to a table big enough for the three of them.
it’s 3am. calling it a night.
will fix the blog tomorrow and do replies.
Theme is updated, but some links won’t work until I start back tracking my tags.
Gonna go back a few months, maybe a few things form the beginning.
It’s 2.30am, like feck am I back tracking everything,
A/N: The lyrics are from ‘Lullaby of a Storm Night. Maybe listen to it while reading? Here you go. Anyway, this is the time when Mycroft heard news of Sherlock’s death. He didn’t actually know his brother’s faked it until AFTER. So. This is his internal… chaos. He goes from neutrality (he locks it all out), blaming Sherlock, then self-guilt, and finally his mind breaks down into a mess of OCD (or as best as I could manage, given my extremely limited knowledge on it) and guilt and coldness. I’ll let you read it yourselves. Criticisms would be nice. Thanks!
little child, be not afraid
though rain pounds harshly against the glass
like an unwanted stranger, there is no danger
I am here tonight