Sherlock arrives earlier than is his wont. His usual style is to come late, after many students have already left the Great Hall and he can take his (usually meagre) breakfast in relative privacy. Today, though... today waiting is driving shards of glass under his skin. There are cables in him drawn tight, one more tug from snapping, from sending all that pent up energy somewhere a lot more dangerous.
So he goes. So he braves the packed hallways with his head held high, hands at his sides, his long, ink-stained fingers curled gently in towards the palms, as though to protect their sensitive tips from all the grating stimuli that assault all of his other senses.
Even if it were a conscious gesture it would've done no good, of course. There's too much – but he's used to too much, wouldn't know what to do any longer without at least a bit of it, day to day. Go madder, probably. It's a balance.
What is odd, though, odder than usual, are the looks he's getting from a small collection of students at the Hufflepuff table. That they must know, or know something, or suspect, is obvious and Sherlock could cringe, could give every conceivable sign of guilt, demonstrate all appropriate remorse – and in doing so give the game away. Could, but he only inclines his head further and takes a seat at the Ravenclaw table, deliberately close to where John sits.
For all his cool haughtiness, though, he is inwardly impatient. At least the way he picks at his food and fidgets isn't uncharacteristic, and nobody's likely to read anything into the faint leaning of his torso, almost imperceptibly, as though he's drawn to where John sits, only sitting here in a momentary break from a more natural orbit.
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So he goes. So he braves the packed hallways with his head held high, hands at his sides, his long, ink-stained fingers curled gently in towards the palms, as though to protect their sensitive tips from all the grating stimuli that assault all of his other senses.
Even if it were a conscious gesture it would've done no good, of course. There's too much – but he's used to too much, wouldn't know what to do any longer without at least a bit of it, day to day. Go madder, probably. It's a balance.
What is odd, though, odder than usual, are the looks he's getting from a small collection of students at the Hufflepuff table. That they must know, or know something, or suspect, is obvious and Sherlock could cringe, could give every conceivable sign of guilt, demonstrate all appropriate remorse – and in doing so give the game away. Could, but he only inclines his head further and takes a seat at the Ravenclaw table, deliberately close to where John sits.
For all his cool haughtiness, though, he is inwardly impatient. At least the way he picks at his food and fidgets isn't uncharacteristic, and nobody's likely to read anything into the faint leaning of his torso, almost imperceptibly, as though he's drawn to where John sits, only sitting here in a momentary break from a more natural orbit.