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One backwards glance.
That’s all it takes.
Just one backwards glance and the casual batting of an eyelid.
A wink that no one sees.
No one except John Watson.
And that is all it takes.
Almost immediately, his ears fill with the dull roar of blood in his veins, and his suit becomes stifling, his skin prickling against the wool as the heavy-bodied viper of the master criminal’s smile coils itself at the base of his spine.
No. He shakes his head, trying to shake it free. No no no no, no.
The feeling doesn’t subside, rather, it seems strengthened by the denial.
He tried to kill you, remember?
In the background, Sherlock says something that sends ripples through the courtroom, and the figure in front of him tilts his head ever-so-slightly, baring the merest expanse of neck between collar and hairline. All at once, he feels his face flush with heat even as his blood runs cold with the knowledge of a single, terrifying fact.
He knows.