It was that person he walked by. It just had to be. Mysterious, cloaked like Blackwood. Clearly specialized in the dark arts like Blackwood had been. But wait, it was all a lie on Blackwood’s part. So what was this? Just a freak thing, wasn’t it? He was thinking about it too much. Stressing himself out to the point where even he knew he was making the pain worse and worse as time dragged on.
And it had started with the passing for that… person-thing.
Now he was reduced to pushing himself against a wall while he sat upon the ground. His left arm grasped at the area just underneath his right shoulder, his face contorted in pain. This was ridiculous. It had been months since these scars had even hurt at all. So why all of a sudden? And the detective couldn’t even make it back to Baker Street thanks to the pain. Just fucking great.
What an idiot he must look like. But he couldn’t stop there. There was just no way. Struggling to get back to his feet, Sherlock winced in pain as he moved. Soon he succeeded in getting himself off the ground, making his way towards Baker Street. He removed his hand for a split-second before a twinge of pain coursed through him and Sherlock had no choice but to return the hand there.
Just fucking great. At least no one was around, right? He could suffer alone until this damn burning sensation wore off.
Summer had paused for a moment, only a moment, to watch a street performer, arms full of books, and the pain had struck her. ‘Not my pain, not mine not mine,’ was all she could think for a moment, striving to keep her face impassive. Slowly, she turned, making it seem a natural movement, simply turning away from the performance, moving back into the flow of people. Inwardly, she was reaching out to that pain.
Physical. Not new, but newly awakened. Old injury? Probably. Someone close by. Sharp enough that it probably affected how they moved — she saw someone, tallish, darkish, stumble away from a wall, and she followed. She didn’t bother keeping her eyes on the figure, only her mind on the pain he was emanating. Underlaid with determination and frustration.
She didn’t stop to think about what she might do if she was discovered (not that she was hiding, exactly) or if she came upon him.