Through the Eyes of an Ikbal

Sherlock smiles that hidden half smile as the plot starts up, and grinds an iced flagon against his erection. As far as he deduced the plot ('pathetically simple as that was' his mind reminds him) they were about to run off somewhere and Sherlock was not about to if he looked like a hat stand!

Dimmock was telling John about a stolen mare, and John, a better actor that Sherlock had ever figured, bounces up in a rage and charges off.

Sherlock joins in with the fray after making sure he wouldn't be embarrassing himself more than necessary, he's close to the edge of the group clustered around John, who rants as he walks.

There's a flash of movement back at the house and Sherlock turns to see a dark shape in vast tattered robes dart up the stair to the portico and through to the court yard. Curious Sherlock glances once at John then darts off himself

'John doesn't need to worry about being unable to carry this evening,' he thinks sprinting up the steps, 'he's doing a great job. Now who the hell was that?'

The court yard is empty, but the door is slightly open, a sliver of light spilling out. As Sherlock runs around the edge of the dark courtyard towards the door, a shadow stops the light for a moment and Sherlock freezes till it moves on. Who ever it was seemed to stare out at the yard looking for him for ever, though Sherlock knows it was only five seconds.

Once the shadow moves on Sherlock runs straight for the door and darts inside hoping to have moved faster than the intruder would reckon. Coming to rest on his bare feet, crouched just inside the door, he scans the empty room.

'Where the devil...' Sherlock looks behind John's throne, as it's the only item large enough to cover a person, he even looks under the table, though at sixteen inches off the ground there's not much room to get under there.

Standing he moves to return to the group 'Well, I was sure I was supposed to die now.' he thinks to himself.

Just as he's about to turn and exit the room he feels a tap on his shoulder, thinking it's a member of staff he turns only to see a costumed person.

"Ah-ha,I am supposed to die now. Good."

"Well then," the other person says passing him a slip of silk, "lie down and be dead please, they are on their way back by now."

Sherlock smirks and collapses artfully as the killer secrets themselves again.

'All told that was but moments, I wonder if John has noticed I'm gone yet?' Closing his eyes halfway in that glazed dead manner he perfected long ago, Sherlock feels a deep sense of uneasiness as the reality of what he's doing hits him.

He's playing dead, for John, again.

Academically, Sherlock had thought this might be good for the two of them, like the dinner had been for the suit. Show John that once and for all, if Sherlock faked his death again, John would be in on it, or at the very least Sherlock would come back to him right away.

But lying there waiting for John, he was having a hard time keeping order in his mind palace. There was a tingling, phantom pain all along his left side. The left cheekbone and wrist actually ached and throbbed, even though he's posed mostly on his back rolled over on his right shoulder a bit.

Growling under his breath he grips the cloth in his hand, sensitive fingers finding the separate threads of the silk he was given. With that physical sensation grounding him the disruption fades.

Right on time he hears footsteps out in the courtyard, 'John' unbidden his mind rushes to the last time, that memory spills over his senses, helped by John's voice moaning in horror in the doorway. And Sherlock is lost for a moment, the memory of the pain, physical and emotional, rocks him, pinning him under. In his mind's eye he sees John's face as he stares seemingly unseeing past him, he feels a sinking as suddenly he's in a rapid free fall within his mind palace, falling from the roof over, and over again.

Focus comes with a cold, clear, knife-like precision. John's hand, calm 'touch of the tremor, but not full blown, this is affecting him too. God John, I'm sorry about agreeing to this, I thought it would help.' he can't help wishing, yes wishing! In the depths of his mind as John takes his pulse. 'Ah! You are a light in the darkness John. Just the thing to point out we both know this is just fiction, not like last time.'

Calmness envelopes Sherlock like a blanket and he inhales all the way forcing his chest to move visibly, making the saka glitter in John's eye. He hears a quiet grunt from John, 'Message received' now he can relax.

Memory having no power over him he turns his ears to listen to John take command of the room, the powerful sultan once more. Comforted by this Sherlock waits for the others to start asking questions and figuring things out, 'Good god I'm bored already.'

Hands reach out and lift him onto a surface which is just as hard, but a fair bit warmer than the stone floor. During this his right arm flops out with the scrap do silk in his fingers. "What's this then? Sir, you better take a look." Dimmock's voice booms right in his ear as he gently removes the material from Sherlock's hand.

He can positively feel John glowering above him. It's as though waves of irate energy are flowing off his flatmate, like the water current at the base of a waterfall. Sherlock is in a way glad for it, as John's odd behaviour provides his brain with at least a modicum of distraction.

'Oh, it is going to be a long night.'