Sherlock doesn't expect it to go perfectly either; bit chaotic, this, but still: entertaining. Curious. Interesting. His eyes aren't on the book as he prepares to lob it up unto the air. They're on John. Of course they are. That's the point, isn't it?
Once again he finds himself wishing he could slow down time, take this moment by moment, as though moving frame by frame through a film. He wishes he could dissect every movement of muscle and tendon, every shift of bone, wishes he could see and understand every last pathway of neurons that fires up when John casts the spell, as he will just... just...
Now.
Even Sherlock isn't capable of seeing all that he wants to see, but he does his very best. His absolute best, and stores it all away for later. Might not be useful. On the other hand, might just. Either way, he's visibly pleased.
“Told you at the start, didn't I? Steady wand arm.”
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Once again he finds himself wishing he could slow down time, take this moment by moment, as though moving frame by frame through a film. He wishes he could dissect every movement of muscle and tendon, every shift of bone, wishes he could see and understand every last pathway of neurons that fires up when John casts the spell, as he will just... just...
Now.
Even Sherlock isn't capable of seeing all that he wants to see, but he does his very best. His absolute best, and stores it all away for later. Might not be useful. On the other hand, might just. Either way, he's visibly pleased.
“Told you at the start, didn't I? Steady wand arm.”