On Your Own (Holmes/Watson)|FINISHED

[yolanda7h]

Dallas made his way through the front entrance of the apartment complex, down the corridor. His hands were in the pockets of his black jacket as he walked, looking at all of the numbers. Looking for the right one. He was here for a few reasons. There was shit else to do. Buck was out somewhere. He drove by the Curtis house and the light was off. He would have raided the place anyway. He just didn't feel like hearing Darry's mouth about it.

Another reason. Fuckin Holmes. That fucker was the one that discovered his involvement (and gun possession) in that gang shooting. It was pretty easy to figure out where he lived. The man was pretty well known. What would he do when he gets there? No clue. He came there just for kicks. Maybe scare the shit out of him for laughs.

Maybe I'll just punch him in the face for putting me in the fuckin slammer, he joked in his head. Actually that didn't sound like a bad idea.

He reached the apartment and knocked on the door.

"Open up you little piece of shit," he mumbled harshly.

No answer.

He cursed harshly. Not because no one was home but because he sure as heck didn't want to call it a night. He was way too antsy. His ex, Sylvia called him with some bullshit and its not like he cared that she ditched him when he was in jail. He just didn't want to hear her mouth about it either.

Dallas thought about heading back to Buck's but a thought came to his mind. Might as well take advantage while you're here.

Dallas carefully looked from left to right and approached the door. Don't get caught doing this shit. He thought in passing as he pulled out a lock pick and quickly worked to open the door. Although he didn't want to get caught, Dally had overreaching sense of pride. He thought he was untouchable. Why? Because he played it smart, that's why. And the only reason he was dealing with this detective was because as far as Dally was concerned, he deserved it. Not because he got him hauled off to jail. Because he's just another one of those self-righteous bastards who think they're doing justice while they live like movie stars in places like...this.

Why else was he doing this?

The door gave way and opened, revealing a nice lush living room with leather couches.

Why? This shit was fun.

And from the looks of things, he's going to get a lot of money from it.

He quietly closed the door, slowly easing past the sleeping dog underneath the table. He was looking for a bedroom and nothing else. Get in and get out. Don't get caught.

He found a few doors and went into the first one he saw. From what he could tell, this room was very sophisticated and neat. A real Soc kind of place. He didn't lose much time dwelling. Dally went straight to the desk and started opening drawers. Finally he came across a black box, no doubt one with a ring in it. He opened it quickly and grinned. The ring looked like it could be worth a good amount of money. He closed it and quickly shoved it in his jacket.

He moved out of that room and into the one directly across. When he stepped on a pair of slacks right in the door way. He could tell from the clothes everywhere that this was Sherlock's room. Gazing around and seeing what he could make out from the white light seeping from the window, he pinpointed his targets and went for them. First, the dresser--but he stopped his search mid way through. He considered the closet. Too fuckin obvious. If a rich cat like Holmes would hide the cash he was no doubt sitting on, where would he hid it?

He gazed around the room before approaching the bed, looking under it, under the mattress, in the small storage places around the bed and then he looked up.

"If he has a safe behind that painting, jesus fuckin christ," Dally whispered. He stepped on the bed and quickly lifted the painting off the wall, putting it on the bed. He let out a quiet snicker when he saw there was a hole in the wall. Seriously, he knew crackheads more creative than that.

The situation got even more humorous when he looked inside. Because Holmes was a crackhead. There was a plastic bag full of powder, syringes, and a wad of money. There was a picture of a saucy brunette too. Dally quickly grabbed the bag and the money, and jumped off the bed, out towards the living room, aiming to get out and fast.

[philosopher]

Holmes did indeed present rather a dismal spectacle. His face was a greasy white, skin as hot as a dry desert. His head ached with dull pain, and his eyes had smarted with the strong sunlight to which he had been exposed all the day, but his natural energy was undiminished. Some, like Watson, might argue he didn't look all that well - but be it like Holmes to argue right back. He insisted that morning he was well enough for work, and he went through the entire day without complaint or a dent in his progress. Though, at several points in the afternoon he had involuntarily needed to fast-it to the gents and do a technicolour yawn.

Hopping out of the elevator, he shuddered slightly and stood erect, drawing his coat closely about him. Despite that the top-floor landing had usually pleasant heating, and that his forehead could have melted icebergs in record time - he was bloody cold. Holmes stood as though absorbed in meditation, and said nothing for some moments. At last he murmured as though to himself, 'I think I'll have an early night.'

It seemed all the energy he had for his work, he had left at work and on the slow journey home a black cloud had started raining on him. His colourless eyes rested on Watson as he waited for him to be at his side, where they would begin the last mile to their apartment. His friend had been on and on at him all day, like a woodpecker having at wood. You don't look healthy, Holmes. Let me look you over at the very least, Holmes. He wasn't having any of it. It was nothing more than the common cold and he would sleep it off, thank you very much Watson. Then, on that same though Holmes felt what seemed like an apology from his own mind. Watson was his doctor friend, and as his doctor friend took to noticing his extreme fatigue and the effort it cost him to speak, not forbore to ask any more questions and recommended him help. Holmes walked, fixing his glasses more firmly on his nose and stared down at the floor. Not wanting another word of his health spoken.

Being only a corner-turn from their apartment, the detective had only taken a few silent steps when his head shot up with stupefied suspense and he halted on the spot. His arm flew out infront of Watson to stop him too. Thoughts swiftly followed, almost ready to jump into eager details. 'Something isn't right ...'


(Technicolour yawn = puke. Hehh.)

[chess]

Watson wasn't happy with the idea of Holmes working today because, in all honesty, it didn't really look like he'd make it through an hour of even the slightest strain, let alone a full day with the stress of work. Jay knew full well that Sherlock would not listen to a word he had to say on the matter, despite being the best kind of authority on matters of health. Sherlock was stubborn and there was nothing John could say to change his mind...at least on certain matters and, right now, his health was one that Sherlock was being particularly stubborn about. Despite clear ailments and this sort of slow decline of his well being, Sherlock wouldn't let John examine him, no matter how he tried to express his concern. Nothing seemed to be getting through, so all Watson could do was sit back and watch his friend's health decline day by day. On surface value, he could deduce nothing certain about what was wrong with Holmes and he couldn't get close enough to him to work it out.

Meeting his friend at the end of the working day presented Watson with further concerns. It was obvious Holmes had declined over the course of the day, but had continued regardless. What was the point in pointing out the obvious when it was going to be dismissed. Holmes wanted to talk about his health about as much as he had wanted to talk about Irene Adler a few nights ago. Watson should know better than to think Holmes would just trust him with a few details that might just help Jay in understanding the situation at hand and being able to actually deal with it. He couldn't be the sidekick forever, could he? He was always a soldier, part of a team. It was difficult to be part of a team when there was a distinct lack in totally relevant communication. It was something he often thought about. It was a reason for the larger part of his distractions. He should know better than to let it bother him, knowing there may never be a solution to the situation.

Holmes was claiming the illness to be a common cold, but was very cagey when Watson offered any help. He was convinced he could sleep it off and everything would be fine. Holmes may not have thought he had noticed, but John had seen the tell tale signs of something more than a cold, although he really couldn't put his finger on what it was he was looking at and couldn't be sure what he was dealing with. He continued to walk beside his friend, leaving a lot of things unspoken, knowing conversation would only make him inquire as to Holmes' general state, which could lead to an argument, one he wasn't sure either of them could deal with right now. Sherlock's overall stature was enough to show that he didn't want to talk, eyes cast down to the floor, so Jay wasn't going to press the matter, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes also cast down to the floor. With his eyes on the ground, he wasn't really paying much attention to where they were going.

The walk back to the apartment building was already a second nature to him that he didn't need to pay attention. He came to a sudden halt as he felt Holmes' arm quickly whack against his chest. He reflexively took one hand out of his pocket to remove Sherlock's arm from his path when he finally spoke about something not being right. A scowl quickly spread to Jay's face as he lifted his gaze, first looking to Holmes and then looking around the area. “What?” he questioned disbelievingly, sounding a little irritated. That could easily be attributed to his previous irritated thoughts about the current situation with Sherlock. He let out a sharp breath before shaking his head. “What are you talking about, Holmes?” he asked as he returned his gaze to his friend. He sometimes hated when Holmes knew something he didn't and then got all cryptic about it until Watson worked it out or, in the worst case scenario, it was far too late for him to contemplate and comprehend. “What's not right?”

[philosopher]

The detective broke in with a note of bright surprise, rose slightly in posture, and took an unconscious step forward. With measured pace and kindled eyes, Holmes slowly turned his head from left to right in a way that panned the area. He knitted his brows, observing the unfinished wreath of abnormalties. The long rug that lay through the landing, it was slightly rumpled where the corner turn began - a sign that pledged irriration of pace, or more likely, aggression. Practicing the intension of initiating hostilities, or in this case, invasion. The walker hadn't been calmly strolling, they had put enough force to dent the rug as they turned the corner.

Holmes advanced, engaging in his silent deductions. The doorknob to their apartment, it had been forced to the right. Kneeling, he made quite a serious show as he glared intensely at the doorknob. When closing the door and turning the key - only two of which having been made both belonging to Holmes and Watson - the knob would halt left until unlocked. Clearly the work of a lock pick.

The habitual fewness of Holmes' words was a thing prized beyond count when he was observing a scene. Raising somewhat, legs part bent, he beckoned his finger for Watson to come over. 'Psst!' The same trait in him, only less marked, was as satisfying and from one rare utterance to another his thoughts moved like consorted ships from light to light along the home cost. A motion, a glance, told its tale.

'Observe. The tell tale signs,' He whispered in lowered tones, and made a V gesture with two fingers, from his two eyes, to the doorknob, to the floor. 'All stopping at our door, Watson. We have an intruder.'

Hurriedly he straightened upright, back against the wall. A shade passed over his brow, seemingly injured by such sharp movement. Though certainly injured at the idea of chasing off an invader at that hour of the night, when he felt so sluggish already. With a deliberate, even forced, readiness Holmes lay his hand on his gun, once concealed under his coat and sent it with a toss over to Watson, 'Take this, your the better shot.' He dropped one of his hands, and with the other, branished a closed umbrella that had been reclining against a large porcelain vase.

They would advance like a compact cluster and quickly apprehend whoever was raiding their apartment, hopefully without having the need to fire any bullets. Truthfully, Holmes was just as gifted as Watson with a firearm, but by better judgement the detective handed over that responsibility through the general outline of his own self awareness. His head had been clouding over so thickly with headaches, and sometimes, liked to shake up his balance and vision. Where aiming a barrel was concerned, it was just an untakable risk. Giving Watson a second glance, he nodded once and then turned his sights quickly back to the door and immersed himself utterly. He held the umbrella tight, poised with bated breath.

[yolanda7h]

This was great. He was finally gonna stick it to this guy. Besides, if anyone should be in the slammer it should be Sherlock, and he had the proof in his hand. And dammit, if he could show the S.O.B what jail does to a man, he would. He was a rich asshole who thought he was being the hero, with his little sidekick at his hip. It was all BS really. And this was going to prove it. Plus...this was just too damn fun to pass up. Moving hastily through the living room, but trying not to make much noise, he opened the door.

His heart jumped in his chest seeing Sherlock and Watson. But his shock wasn't easily visible. He refused to let them know he was actually slightly panicked. He's been in situations much worse than his so he was a master at hiding any emotion. In fact, he got over that initial panic acted immediately. "Remember me, fucker?" He grabbed the umbrella, pointed in Dally's direction, and shoved the back end in Sherlock's stomach before he had a chance to react. Using that momentum, he moved out of the room.

Shit, shit, shit. He saw Watson's gun as he moved out of the room. He didn't think this was going to get that serious. Luckily, he was always prepared. With the Socs always on his tail, he had to be.

He quickly dug in his jacket for his own gun and pointed it at them, hoping the sidekick wasn't trigger happy, as he slowly made steps backwards. It was then he realized that he got himself into some deep shit...again. But he wasn't going to let them in on that. No, he had to keep his cool.

"Drop the damn gun, fucker." Dally said, his deep voice sharp. He glanced at Sherlock. "And lets say we call it even. I got your dirt, you got mine."

[chess]

Watson scowled, observing Holmes as he continued to not understand what the hell was going on. Sometimes, he envied Holmes' use of observation. Who was he kidding? He ALWAYS envied that. His eyes shifted from Holmes to various parts of the long hallway they were standing in. What could Holmes see that he couldn't? Being a soldier didn't really prepare you for tracking crimes, more made you tactical to how to deal with certain situations. He tentatively edged forwards as Holmes continued, not wishing to take another armful to the chest from him. That could only end up hurting one or both of them. He tilted his head, still scowling as he continued to watch Holmes, who was no doubt running through his inner monologue of deductions. He might not be able to make the same observations, but Jay could certainly tell when Holmes was doing it. He stopped again when he saw Holmes kneeling in front of their apartment door, analysing the lock.

That could surely only mean one thing: there was someone inside their apartment. How could he not have noticed? He felt mildly ridiculous for not considering it when Holmes had stopped him in his tracks. His scowl deepened as Holmes rose slightly and beckoned him closer. He edge forward, more observing Sherlock than what he was trying to point out. John followed Holmes' fingers as he spoke and pointed, eyes following the smooth line over the gap between Holmes, the doorknob and the floor. He refocused on Holmes as he spoke again before looking up and down the hallway once more, tenser now due to the confirmation from Sherlock of there being an intruder in their apartment. They should really speak to the owner about a better level of security about this place. Anyone who was anyone could seem to get in. He hesitated for a moment longer as Sherlock straightened and pressed his back against the wall before mirroring his actions on the other side of the door.

He wasn't even sure why he had done it, just felt like the most natural thing to do. He reflexively lifted his hands as he saw Holmes' motion with his gun, throwing it at him, Watson clapping his hands around the slightly warm metal. He turned it over in his hands, positioning it correctly, giving Sherlock a curt nod, flexing his fingers around the grip and trigger and adjusting the safety. Watching Holmes shuffle further into the situation, Watson held back. He could cover better ground from further back. He had Sherlock's back. That was always the deal. From the background of the situation, he could certainly get a better scope on things...but that didn't answer any questions as to who this was and how they had got in. Whoever it was knew Sherlock at least. He took a slight step forward as he saw the other guy shove the umbrella back into Holmes, pressing a hand against Holmes' back, the other hand outstretched steadily aiming the gun.

He felt his jaw tensing as he followed the guy's movements with a steady movement of the gun, only to have the guy draw his own gun and aim it at the pair of them. What the hell was going on? Tempted as he was to follow the intruder's motions and take a step forward for everyone he took back, something told him that would end rather badly for one or more of them, so remained, for the time being, where he was, though taking a slightly defensive motion in front of Holmes. His scowl faltered for a look of confusion as the guy told him to lower the gun before directing what he had to say at Holmes. Watson glanced to his friend, looking him up and down for a brief moment before returning his gaze to the intruder. “Whatever business you have with Holmes is no business of mine,” he observed. “So I think I should be the one telling you to drop it,” he continued, squaring up a little, trying to keep his voice as even and composed as possible.

[philosopher]

Holmes, well aware of the influence of a summer night and certain accessories, tried his best to be practical. His forehead glistened and, what felt like an intense heat seeming to be coming off him making him uncomfortable in his clothes. It was a hot night, and he, under the circumstances, was disinclined to this inconvienient intruder - how badly he wanted a wink of sleep. He was unable to stand without fidgeting, or huffing an aggrivated sigh, which caused him to be unable to hold the umbrella steadily. Grappling, twisting, twitching - it could not cease.

Certainly he could not contemplate the possibility of the door opening up to one his past convictions, and as he looked upon the young trespasser the faltering sternness in his own face was unchanged - for a moment or so. A new realization dawned over him, and he stood alertly motionless for several seconds. ' .. Dallas Winston? What, .. who let you out of prison?'

There was no immediate answer, save for a sudden jab to the stomach courtesy of his own umbrella. Right away he doubled over and briefly groaned, putting out a hand for some support to keep him standing. He had not eaten at all, but he was bent and clutched his sides in a way like he were about to wretch up any pebbledash that was left in him. Being winded so suddenly did nothing for his already fragile state of being. A few more seconds of sickly suffering, and he let out one hearty cough, standing himself up into what felt to be amid thunderous headaches. He caught his breath, turned - and whilst doing so turned away from Watson's assuring hand, looked straight and full at Dallas Winston. Erect, calm as a stone image, there was absolutely no expression in his eyes.

'It's alright, Watson. It's alright. No reason to worry.' He said, red as beetroot and very unimpressed. Shielding the sickly aches that were writhing and wailing, up and down inside him. 'He's just the little boy that escaped his playpen, but I promise you now, he's going straight back in there.'

[yolanda7h]

Dally's narrow eyes watched every move the pair made, his expression cold, and his grip tight on the gun. His eyes moved slightly from Watson to Sherlock, but he kept both of them his line of sight. Well aware that this could turn out very...very...bad, a part of Dally was energized by the risk. Hell yeah, he wanted to get the fuck out of there, but man...was this just crazy situation he found himself in. Maybe it was this line of thinking that enabled him to keep cool so well. He just loved the thrill.

"Whatever business you have with Holmes is no business of mine, so I think I should be the one telling you to drop it, ” the sidekick said.

Dally took a breath and his eyes flared with anger as he took a stronger grip on the gun. To anyone in Windrixville, that look in his eyes meant everyone needed to get the hell out of his way. It meant that there was no telling what he would do next. Something in him wanted the duo to know that he would pull the trigger if it came right down to it. He wanted them to know that out of all three of them, he was the one calling the shots. It was the only way to get out of this situation scott free. And that was all Dally was focused on in the moment.

"Damn right this ain't your business," He said, almost through clenched teeth. "So if you don't want any casualties, you should take your own damn advice. Or else you'll never get that ring back." Yeah, he wanted to play with the guy. If you shake up a man enough, they'll back down. Watson definitely looked like the type that would back down.

"It's alright, Watson. It's alright. No reason to worry. He's just the little boy that escaped his playpen, but I promise you now, he's going straight back in there."

"You shut the fuck up." Dally snapped at the collected Holmes. Holmes' stare rivaled Dally's but Dally refused to show weakness. All he knew was that he dealt with a lot more tougher cats than this, and he knew he would get out of this. He had to. He won't go back to jail. Not again. "I'll kill you, man, so shut the fuck up. And you know what? Not only will I have your fuckin stash but that brunette broad you keep locked away in that safe of yours."

His eye snapped to Watson again. "Put the goddamn gun down." he barked as if Watson was simply a dog to be tamed.

[chess]

Watson observed Holmes every instance he knew he could get away with it: he was acting very shift and uncomfortable, perhaps even more so than usual. Perhaps that could be pinned down to the presence of this intruder, but something told Jay that it was something more. Jay wasn't entirely sure what he was meant to make of the current situation, but he knew he wouldn't get a word in edgeways if it seemed even slightly likely that he was questioning Holmes' well being and judgement. He didn't like the look on Dallas' face. It was as if they had invaded his space or something when they had every right to be there and he had absolutely not right whatsoever. He side glanced at Holmes as he said 'Dallas Winston? What...who let you out of prison?' Dallas Winston? Watson had heard that name before, presumably from Holmes' own mouth. A past case perhaps? Whatever the case, it would appear Winston was a lot of trouble and, as far as Holmes seemed to be concerned, should still be in prison.

Watson held his gaze on Winston as Holmes took a moment to recover from the sudden winding he had received from the other end of his own weapon of choice, the umbrella. His jaw flexed, tensing and relaxing as he kept a steady eye on Dallas, partially annoyed by the fact he had broken into their apartment in the first place, but ever so slightly annoyed by the fact that Holmes was being so damn calm about the situation. He narrowed his eyes at Dallas. He knew that he wasn't going to get away with this. He couldn't. His strong resolve faltered for a moment when Dallas mentioned never getting the ring back. Mary's ring. He felt the anger rising much quicker in his chest now. “You have no right to that,” he snarled, taking a step forward. He had been shot before. He wasn't exactly going to flinch with someone pointing a gun at him. He imagined Mary wouldn't be very impressed if he got himself shot over this, but it would have been with a perfectly good reason as far as he was concerned.

He scowled as Holmes spoke, taking his eyes off of Dallas for a moment to regard his friend. Clearly, Watson had got the wrong idea: Holmes was not very impressed looking at all, just having a very calm surface to him, despite his expression giving him away. “Holmes, the guy broke into our apartment,” he replied, returning his gaze to the intruder, flexing his fingers around the gun that was still pointed at him. “Little boy or not, he needs to learn right from wrong,” he answered to Sherlock's further words about him. “It's obvious the playpen isn't doing much use,” he finished bitterly as he glared at Dallas. “I think you'd do well to shut up yourself,” he commented cruelly. His jaw tensed again as Dallas barked another order for him to put the gun down. “Do you think I'm really that stupid to stand here unarmed with someone like you around?” he questioned. Dallas clearly wanted something more, otherwise he would have bolted already surely...

(ooc: sorry for the wait again guys -.-)

[philosopher]

(My turn to apologize -.-)

This hot-blooded scheme of Winstons' had opened to Holmes, flushing hotly at the mention of the safe-hole - that had been secreted by a painting cover in his bedroom. Apparently, not as safe as he had imagined. His thoughts were too few to divide into hostile fractions, determined to remain steady. Not scrape up a fine argument for rebellion and selfishness, but suffer the dull, submissive ills of policing from which there was no escape. It was all too difficult though, the thought of this boy pawing over Irene's photograph enough to make his teeth grit. Inclined to the ongoing fatigue and the tending towards being the professional, the vicious utterance of anger smoothed away into what looked to be a calmer - but very forced, attitude of superior authority. Dallas Winston was not be the commanding position.

'Easy there, my learned colleague.' Holmes gently urged, needing his friend to pause and think. Gradually, he lowered Watson's gun for him, and leant back to quietly, but rapidly explain to him, 'We can't afford to provoke him, not deliberately Watson. Children must be spoken to softly.'

Returning back to the scene, his eyes fell right away on Winstons' own gun, with an almost incredulous expression. 'You've brought a gun with you, Winston. I get the feeling this was never a passing visit, it's more probable that this a personal attack - vengence, am I right? What was your intent?'

He raised his hand, 'No, stop. I know your intent - not to kill, I don't think. Not unless you need to, knowing that within five days max you'd be back in prison before you can say Mable's hairdryer. Judging by the friction-caused folds on the corner of the corridor carpet, caused by cheap soled shoes, you were in a hurry. Still are, from what I see. You came to give me - the hawkshaw who I can see, you've grown a longterm hatred of - a scare, why else would you come to mine of all doors? Perhaps you planned to rough me up a bit and then be on your jolly way. Maybe a robbery wasn't your first priority, but with such a pretty lock on the door who could resist. And the useless dog, of course, failed to raise any alarm. How untimely it is that the very two men you are robbing, turn up right at the doorstep on your exit.'

He was fond of a long process of explaining and here was one that suited him precisely, running through the account as he saw it, even if unconsciously contradicting himself. Though tired, he managed to complete the sense and trudged on determinedly. Finding his place between Watson and Winston, he raised his sharp eye to the young lad's face. Making a strange grimace on first contact with his hating scowl.

'You're going to an awful lot of trouble just to give me a little fright. Perhaps I should be flattered.'


(POLEHVORE - Holme's outfit)

[yolanda7h]

“Do you think I'm really that stupid to stand here unarmed with someone like you around?”

"You ain't got much of a choice," Dal said coolly. As far as he was concerned, he was going to get out of this mess alive and not in jail. There was no question. And he wasn't about to be taken down but some side kick doctor. No way. He watched intently as Sherlock forced Watson to lower his gun. A small feeling of relief washed over him, but he didn't let on at all how relieved he was. He still kept the weapon pointed at the duo.

"'We can't afford to provoke him, not deliberately Watson. Children must be spoken to softly.'"

"You keep talking, wise ass." Dally warned.

Unfortunately he did. Dally's eyes stared at Sherlock with intense anger as he deducted Dally's motive and intentions. The accuracy startled him a bit. What startled him even more was the reality of the fact that Dally was staring another jail sentence right in the face, and how Sherlock made that undeniably clear to him. It wasn't as if he wasn't thinking about before, but Dally assumed, as he always did, that he would find away out of this mess. Sherlock made him doubt that assumption.

Ironically enough, this was a familiar situation to Dally. This moment, where he knew in his gut that things went too far but it was too late to do anything about it, was one he's experienced time and time again. And just for a second as Sherlock talked, Dally's cold eyes flashed with realization.

Shit, he swore in his head, knowing that he was in deep this time. Real deep.

But he'll be damned if he goes back to jail. Not this time.

He shook off his doubts and narrowed his glare more intently at Holmes again as he stepped up towards him.

"You're going to an awful lot of trouble just to give me a little fright. Perhaps I should be flattered."

"You know what, just shut the fuck up," Dally snapped. He started taking steps backwards, the gun still pointed at the two. "You really think I give a shit about what you think my intent is. But you know what? That was pretty good for someone shitfaced off of cocaine. Don't worry, I might take a hit myself now that I've got my own stash. And with that ring, I probably can get a good amount more. And don't talk to me about fuckin jail time. You threw me in there once, it won't happen again. You won't catch me. You won't fuckin catch me."

As he talked he steadily eased backwards and then took off in a full out run, down the corridor and out the fire escape, jumping down the metallic stairs to get away. As his heart pounded with adrenaline, there was only one thing going through his mind: They won't fuckin catch me.

[chess]

'You ain't got much of a choice.' Watson's jaw tightened at Dallas' calm words, but he remained silently. He didn't like how mockingly calm Dallas was about all this right now. He wasn't getting anywhere trying to talk to the guy. Hell, even having his gun drawn wasn't making the situation any easier on any of them, but Jay wasn't about to stand there and have someone point a gun at him if he didn't have at least a little leverage on them as well. Easy there, my learned colleague.' How could Holmes want him to be calm? Surely he knew by now how John reacted to situations like this. Lowering the gun felt like a task in itself as he tried to resist, but he wasn't about to argue with Holmes about it now. Sherlock knew the individual before them a lot better than John did, so he was going to believe that Sherlock was just looking at what was best for the situation at hand. He had lowered the gun, but he wasn't going to put it away. That was pushing it.

We can't afford to provoke him, not deliberately, Watson.' The scowl that had begun to dissolve from his features returned at these words. Surely Dallas was already provoked, everything now was just part of the heightened situation. 'Children must be spoken to softly.' Something about these words coming out of Holmes mouth in regards to the guy stood before them made him laugh briefly, a smirk remaining on his features even though the sound ceased quickly. It somehow put the image of Dallas simply being a child trying to play cops and robbers into his head. The smirk even remained when Dallas said 'You keep talking, wise ass.' “Oh yeah, 'cause you look pretty smart yourself right now, don't you?” he questioned sarcastically, nodding to the gun Winston had pointed at the pair of them. Watson continued to remain silent as Holmes analysed the situation before them out loud, observing various things about Dallas and questioning him about what the intent had been.

'It's more probable that this is a personal attack – vengeance, am I right?' Jay unintentionally let out another short burst of laughter at Holmes' words. “You certainly know how to pick your acquaintances, don't you, Holmes?” he asked with another short laugh. Holmes certainly seemed to have done his usual trick when dealing with something like this and had picked up on more than he had initially let on about everything that was playing out and the reasoning behind it all. That was a skill that John Watson couldn't deny that he thoroughly envied about Sherlock Holmes. Although, he did flash a slightly irritated look at Sherlock when he referred to Gladstone as a 'useless dog'. The poor creature wasn't there to play guard for them. It was just a pet...and an experimental test subject when Holmes saw fit, so it wasn't as if the situation would be alright if he was a guard dog: Holmes' tests would have rendered him bad at that anyway.

Something flickered in Dallas' expression, something familiar, but something Watson couldn't quite put his finger on. He scowled as he continued to observe the guy, allowing Holmes to continue analysing everything. There was no point breaking his flow. He wasn't sure that he was happy with Holmes placement between himself and Winston. His friend was unarmed and, to Watson, clearly wasn't in the best state of health to be dealing with the armed Dallas Winston. 'You're going to an awful lot of trouble just to give me a little fright, perhaps I should be flattered.' His gaze flickered between the back of Sherlock's head and Dallas' expression when the former spoke, waiting for the latter's response, noting the ever continuing glare in his face as he regarded Holmes. 'You know what, just shut the fuck up!' He felt his body tense again, his fingers playing over the gun in his hand at Dallas' new outburst, unhappy with the idea that he had his gun lowered and Winston was still pointing his at them.

'That was pretty good for someone shit faced off of cocaine.' So, Dallas clearly knew Holmes' habits then? That was definitely...encouraging to know...not. 'And with that ring, I probably can get a good amount more. This really aggravated Watson, letting out a gruff noise of irritation. His issue right now was that he was stood behind Holmes and he would be risking his friend if he were to make a move now. Dallas wasn't going to get away with this. 'You threw me in their once, it won't happen again.' If he weren't so on edge and annoyed, he would have interjected with another short burst of laughter. However, this time, the sound didn't happen. “Don't you count on it,” Jay snarled before he could stop himself. Reflexively, Jay shifted to run off after Dallas, but hesitated as per Holmes' previous requests of him. “Well, are we going after him or not?” he questioned, sounding somewhere between irritable and downright pissed off right about now.

[philosopher]

The detective had a right to expect that, the moment having come, Winston should feel the importance and pleasure of it as much as much as he himself, was feeling opposed. There was a time and place, and neither had come about. Holmes was exhausted of strength, impatient to get into his house and quite frankly, bored from listening to people comment on his fatigued appearance the entire day - so much so, that he was bitterly tempted to ask Winston to reschedule.

Holmes had probably not formulated to himself what he had vaguely expected, but it certainly was not the puzzled, half-questioning look, the indescribable air of being taken aback, altered at once by a quick impulse into something that tried not to look forbidding. The stash, it was all he had for now - and by god, he needed it after the last couple of days. A provoked sense of agitation thrilled Holmes blood, more tell-tale than the quick trembles that seemed to disturb his entire posture. His whole being was jarred, his small occasion of the controlling advantage - towards the rational, smart adult, was gone; there was not a care, not one. Then Winston, quick as Jumpin' Jack Flash, took off down the corridor.

Could it be possible that for the rest of his life Holmes was doomed to be in a world so arranged, that the comings and goings of legal convictions were not the most important thing of all? He stood still a moment, reeling over in his mind - as his body would not permit him to work at two different task simultaneously. Until Watson brought his mind back to the conditions of a few moments before, asking if they were to pursue Winston. The fact of the con escaping with not just his stash, but no doubt his stockpile cash, call him back to earth again. 'Damn right we are,' He answered coldly, tearing off his trench coat. Physically, he would not be able to stand the extra weight and heat, not while running. 'You shoot him if you need to, Watson. He's armed, dangerous, and frankly, getting on my wick!'

Before he had finished his sentence, he was already tearing after Winston with Watson in pursuit. Bursting out of the fire escape, he yelled hard for Winston to stop, before practically jumping down the steps after him. Teeth bared, face red, fists pumping - it was a real physical effort.

[yolanda7h]

Dally ran with all he had, feet bounding the pavement as if his life depended on it. In every sense of the situation, his life did depend on it. The gun he had wasn't loaded and Holmes was right, he wasn't planning to shoot anyone. But with what he had on his person, a stash of cash and drugs, and this guy's ring, they probably would shoot him. Dally forced the thought of them firing out of his mind as he dashed down the dark streets. He couldn't think about that. He had to get out of this mess. There was no other option.

Instead, he focused on the fact that he had a head start. He focused on the fact that he was fast. Dal convinced himself that no matter what, he could out run them. No matter what. Being on the streets at an early age, it was as if his mind was automatically wired for survival sometimes. Self preservation was a constant struggle especially when no one gave a shit about whether you survived or not. More than anything, he knew that in a situation like this, he couldn't have any doubts. If you doubt, you're dead.

These guys were nothing. Gun or no gun. They won't catch him. Yes, he "heard" the detective shouting at him, but Dal wasn't listening. He ran and kept turning corners, trying to lose them. He ducked onto a side street, onto someone property, jumping over a fence and into their yard. He pushed his way some bushes back on to another side street. He knew the his ability to speed through a bunch of obstacles would be better than theirs, he had to believe that. It also made him a harder target if they really did plan to end this chase quickly with a gunshot.

He kept running.

[chess]

Every muscle in John Watson's body was pulled tight from anger, irritation and adrenaline as he waited for Holmes' answer and decision in relation to the situation at hand. It was apparent that his friend wasn't exactly 'there' at that moment in time. It was slightly irritating how Holmes would 'disappear' into his mind, away from the the rest of the world, like that and how, sometimes, it was pretty bloody obvious that he was considering something so obscurely related to the situation at hand that it probably didn't even really need thinking about. He nodded firmly when Holmes confirmed that they were going to chase Dallas. At least all this standing around and shouting wasn't going to go to waste. He waited as Holmes took of his coat and then spoke again. He felt a smirk creeping across his face. It wasn't often he found himself in the frame of mind where he would really, really enjoy shooting someone, but, right now, he was up for more than just shooting the guy once.

The second Holmes bolted after Dallas, even though he hadn't actually finished speaking yet, Watson was right behind him, hot on his trail, though only just hearing the end of the sentence. He just had to hope that his bad leg wouldn't give way too soon. He really wanted to close at least some of the distance between them, even if, at the end of the day, he didn't really think he could actually catch him on his own. It didn't look as if Holmes would get much further than he would at this rate. He didn't exactly look like he was enjoying this as much as he normally might when pursuing a criminal. John was trying his best to try and keep his pace to the same standard at Holmes', but not tire himself out too early in the pursuit of Dallas and risk losing the capacity of how well his leg was working. He hoped that they would get lucky, that Dallas would falter or something. He didn't imagine Dallas would give up too easily, but there was always a chance.