studyinpink
What a predictable password.
Getting into John's computer was always so easy. Password change after password change, it made no difference. Sherlock could always gain access within five tries.
jamesbond
fortknox
ebenezer
Simple. Childish, dull. What made it worth it was the annoyance it would pull out of John. Those little moment of anger made Sherlock's toying worthwhile. Those were the nights that John would fuck Sherlock especially roughly. It was beautiful.
One day, with the hopes of bothering John just a little bit when he got home from the grocer, Sherlock broke easily into his computer. However, John texted him to let him know he was going to be running a little late, so Sherlock overstayed his welcome on the computer.
Snooping. Snooping was usually fun. It took no time at all for Sherlock to find the most hidden of John's hidden files. On extreme lock down, password protected, and hidden in the deepest depths of his hard drive.
Necrophilia.
Sherlock was more surprised than anything else. Accepting, and above all, curious.
But no, it wasn't quite necrophilia. The images and fanfictions John had saved were all pseudonecrophilia.
Nobody ever really died. Everybody always consented. It brought new meaning to the term "play dead."
Curiosity fueled Sherlock higher, and he erased all traces he was ever there, abandoning his plight to bother John. Back at his own computer by the time his flatmate and lover was home, he was racing through site after site afforded him by any search engine he could get his hands on.
Reading articles about where the basis of the fetish comes from in one's psyche – it wasn't hard to figure out it came from John being not only a doctor, but a doctor of war. Timing himself carefully, Sherlock would hack back into John's computer and read little bits and pieces. From what he gathered, John really got his knickers off from the person being false-murdered.
How intriguing.
Ever since Sherlock found out that John was into stuffing, they began to investigate other kinks. Sherlock revealed his special fetish for being strangled during sex, and they explored John's secret desire to wear high heels. They were very open, nothing was secret.
Except, apparently, for this.
How exciting.
Sherlock was patient. He waited until a weekend that Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister. She'd be gone for the weekend, more than enough time. Making his way to a costume shop, Sherlock purchased a false knife with a shiny plastic blade that would collapse into the handle on a spring if pushed against a surface.
Perfect for a good false-shanking.
Mrs. Hudson was gone, and John was coming home with the groceries. It was just like the day Sherlock discovered this on his computer. His blood was thrumming and his hand was shaking as it gripped the plastic handle of the fake knife. Hiding beside the door shivering in anticipation, Sherlock left every light off in the flat. Ten PM, curtains closed, thunderstorm trying to drown the Earth outside, there was absolutely no way John would be able to see him hiding there.
John returned home from getting the groceries in a surprisingly good mood, precisely the reason why he didn't immediately start grumbling about Sherlock having managed to leave the light off upon entering 221b. He flicked the switch without a second thought, and began trudging up the stairs with the plastic bags in his hands, dripping wet from the torrential downpour outside. He wondered whether Sherlock had left the lights off in the flat as well and perhaps had decided to go out, maybe on a case, during the time John was out of the flat.
He pulled out his key and stuck it in the door, pulling it open to greet, yes, an entirely dark flat and silence that was almost eerie, as if tension literally hang in the air.
John hadn't even taken one step into the flat before something cool and thin was pressed to his throat, and a hand clapped over his mouth. Sherlock spoke quickly, before John's soldier training could kick in and he hurt Sherlock.
Lips brushing ear, the groceries spilled across the floor in the open doorway. An apple escaped down the stairs behind them somewhere, thudding noisily down.
"I'm going to make a mess of you tonight, Doctor Watson." He kept his voice low and sinister, and he pressed the plastic blade a little tighter against John's throat.
John seized up as a hand was pressed to his mouth, long fingers and palm covering the entire expanse of his face beneath his nose. He registered instantly the shape of what was probably a knife pressed to his throat, and he instantly prepared to fight back, dropping the groceries.
When Sherlock's voice invaded his ear, he relaxed only slightly, still horribly confused and maybe just a little bit turned on by the sudden sinister quality of the entire ordeal, though he wouldn't admit it at the time.
His mind was filled with questions, mostly of the why and how variety, and he managed to make a muffled, squeaky sound from behind Sherlock's hand.
"You can try to struggle if you like, Doctor Watson, but you're not making it out of this flat alive tonight."
Sherlock threw John against the wall of the flat beside the open door, his wet clothes giving a loud smack against the wall as the knife reappeared at his throat, pressing just a fraction deeper, as if Sherlock was threatening to break the skin.
A flash of lightning illuminated the flat, and Sherlock glowed in that split second before a thunderous crash sounded overhead and the almost manic detective traced the knife's blade down John's cheek – nice and slow so he could tell it was fake – so he could quell any last traces of real fear and replace it with the nice, clean kind of adrenaline-fueled fear, fabricated by a pretend murder with a pretend knife.
John floundered for a moment, flattening himself against the wall as he blinked into the darkness, the lightning sparking into the room illuminating Sherlock's face, and a very real spike of fear shot through John until the knife slid across his cheek, and he felt the chinks in the blade that identified as being a fake weapon, and he breathed heavily, ashamed that he'd thought Sherlock was actually going to kill him for a moment.
A split second of calm before John's mind was shot into overdrive, paranoia that Sherlock had figured him out, had gone searching deep into his things and found his secret.
Allowing the paranoia to consume him for only a second or two, he quelled it, to be replaced by adrenaline-fueled heightened observations as he decided to forget everything, and go with it, without question.
"Anything to say for yourself, doctor?" Sherlock hissed, dragging the fake blade across the tender flesh of John's throat, which he'd already begun to believe was real, just with the sheer amount of lust rocketing through him with the current scenario.
Sherlock could tell by the quickened pulse of the man, his wide eyes – illuminated by another flash of lightning – his clammy flesh and his already stiffening erection, everything was going exactly according to plan. John wasn't fighting back – or at least, if he was going to fight back, it would be for real. He wanted this. It was perfect, absolutely perfect.
He knew John was already beginning to believe it. He was being enveloped in this safe, dangerous world. No real knives could draw no real blood, so he was free to believe. And believe it he did. His whole body trembled with terror as the knife traced patterns across his throat.
Sherlock moved the blade quickly now, slicing open John's cheek. Or rather, tracing a quick line across his face, but the way that John cried out with imaginary pain was so perfect, Sherlock might as well have cut his flesh. He opened his mouth and licked up imaginary blood from John's jaw, and he could almost taste the ironlike substance on his tongue. He almost found himself craving it, creating it, to the point he could smell it in his nose, and there was almost no doubt in his mind that he'd just sliced open John's face.
"Perhaps you'd like to beg for your life?"
John was so quickly consumed by Sherlock, consumed by the fantasy of the blade against his cheek, of danger and pain and fear, that he barely had a second to process anything but what was going on before him.
His heart was pumping fast, and he remained stock still against the wall, unable to respond until the hand was removed from his mouth, and even then his voice was shaky, stained with fear. "I- Please, please don't hurt me, I haven't done anything th-that.. Please."
"Oh, Doctor, that's contemptible. You call that begging?"
Another slash with the knife, and John cried out as he felt his shoulder split apart, imaginary blood running down his arm, now throbbing with pain. Standing to his full height, Sherlock pulled the blade tight against the small of John's back, pressing so deep it threatened to cut through the doctor's wet clothes and slice him right where he stood. His other hand slammed loudly, dangerously to the wall beside John's head.
"I said beg."
John pulled a harsh breath in through his nose; it was as if he could feel the pain throbbing through his shoulder, thick blood trickling down his sleeve, soaking through his already wet shirt. With the knife now pressed to the small of his back, John was hard pressed to come up with a single coherent thought, a strangled sound making its way up his throat.
"P-please, don't kill me, I'll do anything you want, jus- Please don't hurt me, I have a partner, don't h-hurt me god please, anything."
"You've a partner?" Sherlock sneered, sliding the knife across John's back until it was pressed against his belly through the thin, soaked material of his jumper. "You think I care? Strip, doctor. Naked." Sherlock lifted the knife and pressed it to the underside of John's jaw. "And don't dawdle."
He'd never felt anything quite like this before. He knew this was how serial murderers must feel, the power rippling through him made him dizzy. He was reeling, pleasure spiraling through him as John began to sob and undress.
John felt himself sinking ever deeper into the fantasy, and suddenly he couldn't stop the near silent sobs wracking through him, as he tugged his jumper over his head, struggling with the heavy wet material for a bit before dropping it to the floor, starting on the buttons of his shirt, his fingers shaking slightly.
He dared a glance at Sherlock, figure outlined only slightly, conjured fear coursing through his veins. "What are you going-" he had to stop to compose himself a little better. "What are you going to do to me?"
"Better question, Doctor, is what am I not going to do to you?" Sherlock hissed, pressing the knife blade to the side of John's cheek, moving it just enough that the serrations in the plastic created friction, and the enveloped John felt his cheek split open.
Moving the blade against John's throat, he pushed the doctor roughly towards the couch until he was sprawled naked across the cushions, his heart hammering with fear.
Sherlock moved like a cat, scooping up a fake syringe he'd had for a very long time, full of water. The collapsible needle was exactly what he needed right then.
Sitting firmly on John's chest, he jabbed the needle against his neck. There was the slightest of pricks against his skin before it collapsed into the glass casing, but to John's hazed, frightened, aroused mind, he felt the needle penetrate his skin.
"That will keep you immobile from the neck down." Sherlock hissed, trailing the very tip of the blade down between John's exposed pectorals. "I'm sure you can already feel it working into your system. You'll still be able to feel every single last move I make, Doctor, but you won't be able to push me away no matter how much it HURTS."
He pushed the blade just a centimeter deep, right below John's ribcage, and a sense of power rippled through him. So entrenched in this fantasy, he watched as crimson blood spilled down John's side and stained the couch cushions.
The needle sent another spark of fear through him as it was moved to him, and he would swear on his life he felt the immobilizing liquid spread through him, would swear that he felt absolutely paralyzed as he watched the knife pressed to his side, crying out with pain that felt so bloody real he had to close his eyes, barely stifling a pained and frightened cry, fearing watching the blood trickle over his skin.
Sherlock turned the blade roughly, earning another loud sob from John as he threw his head back. He could almost see the tingles of fright and lust drift down his skin, raising goose bumps in its path.
"Sing for me, doctor." He hissed, mania spiraling through him. "Sing for me nice and loud."
John's skin felt prickly with fear, mingling in obscene harmony with the lust coursing through him. It took a moment for him to process the order hissed at him, and even then his mind came up helplessly blank, naught but a strangled sound leaving him.
Sherlock felt rage rush through him when John disobeyed, and he pulled the knife roughly from the side of his body, watching as blood trickled down and continued to pool beside him.
"I'll show you what happens when you disobey me," he snarled, grabbing John up by the hair and throwing him over the back of the couch. Legs spread and arms hanging limply under the effect of the imagined drug, he was at Sherlock's mercy.
A hunger for John's pain coursed through the detective's body like liquid fire. He lifted the knife and slashed the tender flesh of John's bottom, sending blood pouring down his thigh.
John cried out as the knife slid harshly over his backside, felt sting-burn-throb and thick blood trickle from yet another of the imaginary wounds. "I-I'm sorry, I wont dis… disobey again. I can't think of anything!" His words were breathless and frightened, unable to do much but toss his head.
"Then just yell."
Sherlock moved the knife to the front of John's body and began to roughly palm his growing erection, moving the blade just so, so it rubbed dangerously against the side of the doctor's cock, threatening to break the skin at any twitch of Sherlock's wrist.
John's heart faltered as the knife touched his cock, and yell he did with no abandon as a long fingered, knife wielding hand roughly worked over his erection. If he could, he'd have been writhing under the sheer power radiating off his attacker, but yet he remained as limp and still as he'd ever been, though his throat was growing hoarse already.
Sherlock moaned wildly as John's screams filled his ears. He never in a thousand years would have imagined that listening to horrified screams of a brutalized man would cause such giddy joy to ripple through him.
He pushed his hips forward, grinding his own throbbing cock between Johns' bleeding ass cheeks.
"I'm going to rape you, doctor." He warned in a low, dangerous tone.
John whimpered at the sinister statement, feeling Sherlock's trouserclad cock grinding hard against his arse. "Please..!" He begged, neck arching hopelessly as he tried to force his muscles into motion, to squirm away, to get away from him, his efforts nothing but fruitless.
Sherlock laughed like a madman at the doctor's pitiful attempts to thwart the drug running amok through his veins. He pressed the blade against John's soft underbelly and made the shallowest of cuts all the way across his pelvis, just a hair's breadth above his cock, just to hear the frozen and helpless doctor scream.
He started struggling in earnest when the blade split open his skin only just above his crotch, though he was able to move no more than he had been, but he screamed passionately now, tears dripping to the floor over the back of the sofa.
"Mmh, yes," Sherlock moaned, grinding himself forward against John again, drawing a thin line of blood across the doctor's back with another shallow cut, watching as it slowly leaked down his spine and into the front of the detective's trousers. "Oh, fuck yes."
Letting his head fall back, Sherlock moved his finger to where he'd driven the blade shallowly into John's side, and pressed the digit into the small incision.
John panicked as Sherlock's finger probed into the cut on his side, crying out as it throbbed. "Please, stop! Stop doing this, I'll give you anything, just, please!"
"You'll give me anything, doctor? Anything I want?" Sherlock's voice was gilded and sweet, with a twist of bitterness and maniacal enthusiasm.
John nodded desperately, biting into his lip so hard he drew a real bead of blood. "Y-yes, anything, just please stop cutting me up!"
"Well, I can't do that, doctor." Sherlock moved his lips in close, licking up the shell of John's ear. "Because what I want is to slice you to pieces, to own you, to rape you, and then… and then, doctor, I'm going to kill you."
John's eyes widened as he stared ahead into the relative darkness, jerking his head away from his mouth. "No! Don't kill me, you're not going to kill me." He whispered harshly, finding a sudden bit of confidence unjustified in his current, immobilized position.
"You can't tell me what I'm not going to do, doctor." Sherlock hissed, drawing blood from another shallow cut on John's thigh. "You can only accept it. The sooner you do… the sooner you will be at peace."
Tracing another shallow cut up the doctor's chest, he drank in the cry, the subtle shudder from the powerless body beneath him.
John hung his heat, teeth clenched as yet more cuts were carved over his body, trying to muffle his cries, knowing they were satisfying his attacker a fair bit.
Sherlock frowned as John bit the back of the couch to keep from hollering. Throwing the motionless doctor onto his back, a flash of lightning illuminated the detective's furious face.
"I'm being nice, doctor." He said, carving another shallow cut across his thigh. "I'm being gentle, I'm taking it easy. For you, doctor, I'm doing it for you. But if you're not going to cooperate I'm going to have to do this the hard way."
Bringing his hand down with a mighty slash, Sherlock drove the blade in its entirety into John's left thigh, right down to the handle. The detective's cock gave a forceful throb within his trousers as he watched the muscle split apart and blood well up around the blade.
John let loose a bloodcurdling scream, desperately wanting to arch up off the sofa as the knife was driven into his leg, pain shooting up through his entire body, blood welling up from the wound, slowly, so slowly, trickling over his thigh and onto the sofa. He knew if, or rather when, the knife was yanked from his body, blood would pour from him like a faucet, and it would hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before.
Sherlock sighed throatily and let his head drop back when the sound of John's scream hit him full force. A rough shudder traveled up his spine.
This was perfect. This was elegant, it was divine. It almost felt like art.
Yanking the blade from John's body, earning another beautiful cry, Sherlock moved it to his face and traced a shallow cut down his cheek.
"You see, doctor? I don't have to be mean. We can take this nice and easy, I can treat you right. But you're going to have to be nice and vocal for me. Tell me what you're feeling, doctor, tell me everything."
John's mouth hung open, choked sounds leaving his throat at the after shocks of the most horrific, blinding pain he'd experienced since being shot.
Rather than whimpering like a wounded animal, severely wounded, some part of his brain addled, he was filled with some sudden surge of absolute rage. "..P-pain, it feels like being STABBED IN THE LEG YOU FUCKING LUNATIC!"
"Mmmh," Sherlock moaned, palming his own erection through his trousers as John screeched at him. "Oh, doctor, yes. You don't even know the half of it, not yet."
Licking his lips, Sherlock began to trace circles around John's nipples, bringing up little lines of blood beneath the very tip of his blade.
John let loose another pained yell, neck arching back as blood was drawn from his chest. He was starting to feel a little weary now, a little hazy, as blood seeped freely from his thigh.
Sherlock leaned down and began to lick around the wound in John's thigh, tasting blood strong on his tongue. He moaned aloud before grinding his aching cock into the wound, the zipper on the front of his trousers sending white-hot icicles of pain shooting through John's body.
Screams were ripped from John's chest, throat horribly raw, though that was the least of his trouble right now with his soon to be murderers cock grinding into the open wound on his leg, material and zipper dragging painfully over torn, sliced and very damaged skin.
"YES," Sherlock roared, and finally freed his cock from his trousers. Full and heavy with blood, he pressed it to John's bleeding thigh beneath his palm and began to roughly thrust against it.
Tears flowed from his eyes now, sobs wracking through his chest as his cock was thrust harshly over his wound, slicked by his very own blood. "P-please, stop!"
"Beg for me, doctor," Sherlock groaned, grinding his hips slower against the wound, so John could feel every ridge of his cock against his brutalized thigh. "If you beg me sweetly enough, I may just fuck your pretty little arse instead."
Bringing the blade up to John's lips, he almost sliced right through them as he held the sharp metal perpendicular to them.
"But be careful, doctor. Don't do it sweetly enough… and I'll fuck this stab wound right here and now like."
John's eyes were as wide as saucers, glassy and wet, he could hardly see through the tears at this point, he was in so much pain. He ground his teeth for a moment, coming to the conclusion that being raped was better than having a cock shoved into the stab wound in his thigh.
"Please fuck me. Please get your cock in me."
Sherlock's grin widened to a frightening degree, and he ran his tongue over his lips again, as another flash of lightning illuminated his teeth. They seemed so sharp.
"Anything for you, doctor."
Blade still firmly in hand, Sherlock moved between John's thighs and spread them over the bloodied couch cushions. He held them in place, hooking one leg over the back of the couch, and the other over his arm. Spreading blood across his cock with his free hand, he guided himself to John's anxious, unwilling hole, and forced himself inside to the hilt.
John's jaw tensed as the man forced his way into him, the only lubricant to ease the way was his own blood. A pained cry made it's way through his clenched teeth as he was impaled to the hilt, stretched incredibly painfully, muscles tensing involuntarily even as he had not a lick of control over his body.
"Oh, doctor, yes!" Sherlock announced his bliss, holding the man's leg firmly in place, the other hooked snugly over the couch. "Yes, this is perfect, this is exactly what I wanted."
Bringing the blade once more to John's lips as he began to slowly thrust into his helpless body, the detective forced the metal into the doctor's mouth, against his tongue.
"Suck it." He commanded.
John grunted as his body was invaded thrust after agonizing thrust, limp legs spread forcefully wide, would swear upon it that he could feel the delicate skin inside him being torn by the unprepared rape.
As the knife was pushed into his mouth, he stared hard, unforgiving, up at the man, angered and pained beyond belief, slowly losing his ability to fight, to care. He started sucking on the blade as ordered, feeling the serrated edge bite into the inside of his cheek, eliciting a pained moan.
"Oh God, yes," Sherlock hissed, tilting his head back as he pressed the blade against John's soft inner cheek, watching down his nose as the doctor desperately swirled his now bloodied tongue over the blade.
Sherlock had never felt a high like this before. He'd topped John in the past, but this… this was remarkable, indescribable. Having him so willingly laid out, willingly raped by the man he loved – brutalized and beaten and bloodied and destroyed.
He roared with pleasure that rocketed through him, slicing the inside of John's cheek wide as he ripped the blade from his mouth.
It wasn't enough. This wasn't enough, not just yet.
Bringing his hand up high, the blade was illuminated by a flash of lightning before it went dark again. Before John's eyes could re-adjust, the blade was hilt-deep in John's belly.
John's cry was softer, eyes un-focusing a little. He let loose a ragged moan as the blade was plunged into his stomach, the breath forced from his body as his body gave a violent, uncontrollable shudder.
"Please... Just… end this, have mercy and end me already." He managed to wheeze out, head tossing to the side as his eyes fluttered closed for the moment.
"Not yet, doctor, we're not done yet," Sherlock hissed, leaving the blade exactly where it was, holding it by the handle, to minimize the bleeding for the time being. "We're not done yet, doctor."
He continued to madly thrust into the bleeding and slowly dying man beneath him, his hips slapping wildly against John's already bruised thighs.
John whimpered, wishing this could just bloody end already, wishing he would just get it over with and kill him now.
He groaned low, the thrusts getting so much harder, more brutal, more dangerous and painful and so much worse. "Please..."
Growing bored with the current position, and needing that one last push to get him over the edge, Sherlock suddenly pulled the blade from John's belly and with a little rough maneuvering, had him over on his hands and knees. He thrust right back into the dying body of the doctor, grabbing up a handful of his hair and pulling his limp form off the couch as he bled freely across the cushions.
"Oh, doctor," he moaned, pounding his hips forward into the motionless body of John, keeping him up against him by his hair. "I'm going to kill you, doctor. Are you frightened?"
John's extremities felt numb now, colour leaching from his face as his blood ran from his body constantly, his mind dulling, like his head was filled with cotton wool.
"Nnno," He slurred, letting his head be pulled back by the hand in his hair, his body brutalized and abused and used. "J'st want it over with already."
Sherlock found himself unhappy with this response, but there was little he could do to the already broken man to make him fearful, nothing left he could try. Nothing. He was bitter about John's reply.
"Wrong answer." He hissed.
Pounding harder, faster, climbing higher, flashes of lightning illuminating John's paling form, Sherlock approached his climax. Nearer and nearer, each clap of thunder, each weak shiver of John's dying body, he drew closer.
Throwing his head back with a cry, it was upon him. He pulled John's body tight up against his as he came into him thickly, deeply. He observed the dark blood that stained John's hips and belly and thighs, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough.
Lifting the blade one more time, he pressed it severely to John's throat and sliced deep as he liked.
John moaned weakly, as his body was pulled up and he was thrust into harder and harder, his body stained and slick with his own blood, with his own life. When he felt the blade pressed against his throat, he whined a weak protest, but gave himself up to the sensation of his throat being slit deep and hard, a wet gurgle of a breath drawn in as his lungs struggled to get air in. His breaths drew further and further apart, shuddering and shivering, eyes shut as his head flopped back, his last final wheeze of a breath leaving him in a soft huff.
They slowly came down from their high together. Lying, collapsed on the couch.
There was no blood.
There were no wounds.
There was no drug.
There was no dying.
There were only bodies, entwined and heaving on the couch.
And Sherlock… he felt strangely unfulfilled. A tingle shot through him as he tried to imagine what it would have been like if John had actually died. What he would have done next. Perhaps chopped him up, disposed of his body piece by piece, in public places, just to really frighten people.
Set fire to the couch, eliminate the blood, just to watch it burn.
Fabricate a deep lie, a scared man who found his flatmate murdered brutally. No one would ever think it was him.
His mind was racing so far ahead of himself, that he almost didn't hear John speak.
John flopped forward onto the couch, Sherlock against his back, and he opened his eyes slowly, panting hard, so different from the fantasy they had just emerged from.
It had seemed so real.
Once he'd caught his breath a little better, he realized Sherlock hadn't said a thing nor moved a muscle.
"How... How did you know I wanted that?"
"Your password skills leave much to be desired, John." Sherlock said bitterly as he pulled out of his lover. With another flash of lightning, he looked down at the fake knife in his hand, and tried to imagine it was stained with blood. But the vision was fading, the longer he thought about it.
John caught note of the tone of Sherlock's voice, and turned to watch him, wincing as he pulled out of his body. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his brow furrowed a little as he watched him staring hard at the fake knife. "Would you like me to leave you be?" He asked softly, inching away from Sherlock slightly.
"Mh. No. I'll take a walk. You take a shower. And pick up the groceries." Sherlock said as he fastened the front of his trousers and fixed his shirt. He pulled his coat off the hanger and slipped the fake knife into his coat pocket, momentarily wondering if he could convince anyone in passing that he was holding a real knife to their throat when he pulled them into an alley.
John rolled his eyes, slumping back onto the couch and pillowing his hands beneath his head. "I'll pick up the groceries before you're back, don't worry." He watched Sherlock redress and popped the knife into his coat pocket. John was, truth be told, a little worried by how Sherlock was acting now. He wondered if the detective wished he'd had a real knife, had cut and killed John.
Sherlock looked over and observed the tight, apprehensive body language of his flatmate. Suddenly giving a disarming smile, he wrapped his scarf about his neck and tucked it into the upturned collar of his coat.
"Relax, John. I'm just going for a walk." He said, watching as the doctor's eyes subconsciously drifted down to his pocket. "I'm perfectly alright. Be back within the hour."
"Am I perfectly alright?"
Hush up, you.