[Sherlock wanders over to the couch as directed and sits. Then, he waits, his eyes closed. The apprehension is strong enough to have the coffee table before him quiver as if it were being subjected to an earthquake, despite the rest of the room being quite still.
And then the memory hits. Telepathy never does stop being an impressive tool, for it's almost as if he's standing right there in an unfamiliar room of an unfamiliar country, face to face with his old friend. By the time the memory draws to a close, there's a distinct tightness in Sherlock's chest and his eyes are prickling.]
1/2
And then the memory hits. Telepathy never does stop being an impressive tool, for it's almost as if he's standing right there in an unfamiliar room of an unfamiliar country, face to face with his old friend. By the time the memory draws to a close, there's a distinct tightness in Sherlock's chest and his eyes are prickling.]
It's him... It's really... He looks so...