[ The distinguished doctor would really rather believe that he wasn’t the pouting type but the entire situation here was making it exceptionally difficult to keep himself from sulking petulantly; forced to play the part of some manipulated pawn in the every twisting game that was sweeping everyone and everything that found itself unfortunate enough to be in the twenty mile vicinity of Sherlock Holmes. An ordinary, insignificant apparently, one of many pawns that his flatmate and Moriarty think can be thrown around at their whim--- to be scored of and score from. Heart staccato in his chest, mouth set in a firm line, an expression of utter displeasure. John Watson was a big boy, wasn’t he? And thought that he should be able to play with the big boys as well; instead of here while he waited for further instruction because if there was anything that he had learned during his deployment and now;;
It was that compliance came fairly easy when one was thrust into a compromising situation like this, and when one was strapped with God only knew how many sticks of dynamites, one didn’t talk back.
Distorted as it may sound there was a certain sort of victory that came along with the realization that he had seen their greatest antagonist’s face before the egotistical Holmes but his thrill lasted all of mere seconds when it came far too real that his life was in danger once more--- that Sherlock was walking into a trap and there was nothing he himself could do about any of it. Nothing at all but stand there while looking like a total joke as he waited for the scenario to play, so there it was, and a pawn is a pawn is a fool. On principle the weathered male makes an effort not to use words like helpless; like stuck but it was as it was and there it would stay. So, that victory, it didn’t last so long and especially not after it came to realization that the individual he was dealing with wasn’t alone by any means. ]
[ There’s the slightly unpleasant aroma of chlorine and sweat filling his nostrils; dread dancing up his spine at the thought of what might happen to him or anyone around him if he felt the overwhelming need to sneeze or had a peculiar itch. One wrong move, one step in the wrong direction, and everything could just--- blow. John didn’t know what was worse; that or the fact that he had been reduced to a mere damsel in distress by some megalomaniac manic who insisted having his overcompensating cronies follow through with his dirty work. While all he could do was wait; wait for the powers that be to decide it was time for him to play his part though at that really meant was stand there rendered one hundred percent useless. Another word he loathes; because out there he’s deemed quite useful but in the world of Sherlock Holmes and this man--- he’s that pawn.
He hasn’t moved from the spot he had been told to stand, torn between feeling annoyed and something a little darker--- a little scarier. After all he has been strapped with dynamite, made to wait, glowering at nothing in particular as he tried to deduce whereSherlock could possibly be. Burdened eyes flickering up to a figure in the not so near distance that wasn’t nearly lithe enough to be deemed his skinny flatmate. Teeth gritting, jaw set in a fine line, refusing to budge, refusing to speak, and refusing to play into this more than he had to. This wasn’t a game to John, not when people had died, and certainly not when he could be next. ]