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Sherlock Holmes, was on his very last set of frayed nerves.
Which also meant that John Watson had gone beyond his normal set, past the frayed ones, and was now currently running through the last of his reserves.
The object at the center of Sherlock's (and consequently, John's) grievance was sitting on the table in front of the large window in the sitting room, its glowing screen underlighting the dour face of the detective, seeming to taunt him; the borrowed computer had been the source of extreme tension for over a week now, and John hadn't been able to do a damn thing but step back and watch the pressure and frustration slowly build behind the harried detective's eyes...until today, when everything suddenly came to a loud, violent head.
Oh, but all of the fuss wasn't over just any computer, no; this particular computer (some sort of high-end PC netbook knock-off) had information...valuable, irreplaceable information...information that Sherlock desperately wanted, that The Yard, desperately needed, but any and all attempts to extract said information were proving fruitless. It had begun inconspicuously enough, with a series of random, abrupt reboots out of nowhere, interrupting delicate processes taking place, and quickly devolved from there as each solution the increasingly-pissed-off detective sought out and attempted came up empty. Again, John could only watch as the seeming futility of it all began taking its toll on the man, who completely refused to be outsmarted by a 'virus-laden piece of shit!' machinery.
And now, at the end of the eighth long day of the virtual siege, Sherlock had once again booted 'the bloody thing' (as he'd taken to calling it) up in safemode and was running another scan--Sherlock was a brilliant man, a genius, no doubt about it...but computers and all of their components and inner-processes were still, um, being catalogued in the mind- palace, as it were.
It was creeping up on hour seven of the latest scan, hour fourteen of Sherlock's hunched, unmoving position in the chair before it, and hour 'let's-face-it-I-stopped-counting-days-ago' of nonstop tinkering with 'the bloody thing', and from the brief glimpse of the detective's ever-darkening expression that he caught out of the corner of his eye, John suspected that it wouldn't be much longer until--
"I...have...had it!"
John cringed; yep, there it was.
"It fucking froze again!" the hunched figure bellowed as two long, unwieldy arms came up to clutch fistfuls of dark hair and yank as hard as they could.
The doctor sighed quietly and then spoke in as calm a tone as he could manage; "Sherlock..."
"I have tried everything!!!" the voice roared again, its owner either no longer caring of its volume, or no longer able to control it. "I don't know what to do anymore, I. Give. UP!!! "
The rant was starting to sound very near hysterics by now, and John tried once again; "Sherlock, please..."
"NO," the man shouted, and before John could add anything more, stood up abruptly and sent his chair crashing backwards. "NO, I am fucking fed UP!!!"
John just looked at him, his mouth gaping at the sheer, unhindered violence of the outburst (sure, he'd seen Sherlock throw plenty of tantrums before, both as big and little, but Jesus Christ, never with such...such pure rage!), but it wasn't until the laptop was slammed closed with enough force to guarantee a shattered screen that the doctor finally snapped out of his shocked state...just in time to see the other man grab 'the bloody-fucking-thing!' and hoist it above his head with both hands, then turn towards the window with the clear intent of heaving it through the glass and dashing it to pieces on the pavement (and whatever unfortunate soul that happened to be standing under it) down below.
"Woah, woah woah woahwoahwoahwoahwoah!" he called out as he darted across the room in record time and came up right behind the raging behemoth. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock!..." John reached around the man's narrow waist with one arm and held him close, while he grasped the detective's forearm with his other in an attempt to turn him away from the window, as well as dissuade the urge to commit what would be a very, very unfortunate, yet entirely understandable, act of destruction (and to avoid getting himself clocked in the nose with an elbow). "Shh-sh-sh, it's okay...Sherlock, love, I think the Yard tends to frown upon the destruction of evidence, no matter how warranted it may be!..."
Almost immediately at John's touch, Sherlock grew quiet (eerily quiet, especially after a fit of that magnitude) and John could still feel every fibre of his being quivering with unspent rage...but when he finally spoke again, it was at a much more quieted, reasonable volume; "I have..." he said, and John could already hear the underlying rasp from the previous strain...the detective stopped to swallow, and then continued; "I have tried, everything I could think of...and it hasn't worked," he croaked.
"...I, I don't know, I don't know what else to do, John."
The last sentence was ended in a near-whisper, but John was familiar enough (more than just 'familiar', really) with Sherlock's sounds and patterns now that he already knew there were tears of frustration in that voice, even before he heard the tell-tale sniffle, right on cue. "Oh, Sherlock..." he sighed, and then began to bring him in for a good cuddle.
Sherlock, however, took him by surprise yet again...by pulling away.
"No, don't, I..." the man paused to clear his throat and straightened his spine a bit more, bringing him to his full height and giving the impression of pulling himself together, all while keeping his back to the doctor, who in turn was struggling with the need to baby the giant prat, or strangle him. Sherlock walked stiffly back back to the table, set the computer back on the table with more care than he'd ever shown even a living creature and reopened it, visibly flinching when the screen flickered precariously. "I just...I need to get back to work; I apologize for the...the outburst, John--it won't happen again."
John's mouth hung open again, his mind short-circuited by the complete 180° that Sherlock's attitude had taken, and then made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat and ran both hands back through his hair. He watched as the detective folded himself back into his once-more upright chair, his back held rigid with the tension still thick in the atmosphere...and then his expression turned from one of bewilderment, to one of determination. "No," he said firmly, striding over to take the startled detective by the elbow..."Stand back up."
The uncertain look on Sherlock's face took on an edge of worry around the eyes; "...Am I getting a spanking?" he asked, his voice still tight.
"Just do as I asked, please, and stand up," John repeated, still firm, and bordering on a command.
Sherlock let an inaudible gust of of breathe flow past his lips slowly before finally obeying John's request; he kept his head bowed, and traded quick glaces between 'the bloody things' screen and the hand still gripping his arm.
"Thank you," John made sure to say, "...Now, go get your coat."
Sherlock paused, then tilted his head to peer at John, puzzled at this new twist. "My coat?...but..."
"You've basically had yourself in time-out for fourteen straight hours, love...that'll make anyone stroppy. We're going out for some fresh air," John answered, allowing his stern facade slip enough to smile at him and offer some much- needed assurance.
As half-expected, though, Sherlock balked. "I can't just leave, John; I'm right in the middle of...!"
John was already leading him to the door, where both of their coats were hung, and kept his hand planted firmly in the small of the detective's back. "Ah-ah, the scan's running again, since you showed it who's boss," he said, unable to keep from sounding slightly amused. "So, here are your only two options; A) you listen to me, and we go have a nice, pleasant evening stroll around the park before coming back and having a nice, warm bath, or B) you can get that spanking you asked about and then go out for a walk, where everyone will see your ruddy, tear-stained face and hear your snivelling, and then come back and get put straight to bed without even glancing at that bloody-fucking- machine; well..." he paused, holding out the long, dark coat and scarf, "...what's it going to be?"
Sherlock simply gazed at him for a minute, his mouth open in a perfectly round 'O' of surprise...and after a brief look back over his shoulder at the table and chair that had been his roosting place for the past eight days, he turned back to John and nodded meekly.
John couldn't keep the triumphant grin from spreading across his face as he handed over the scarf and held up the coat, waiting. "I'll take that to mean we're going with option 'A'...good boy!"
***
The short walk to the park was both uneventful and enjoyable, yet John could tell just from taking in the detective's stance and disconnected gaze that the great mind behind those eyes was still in turmoil and churning away at the problem that, for all intents and purposes, should have only been a 'quick fix'--those were the exact words the computer analyst from the Yard had used...and now that John thought about it, there had been a faint shadow of a smirk behind the man's eyes when he'd handed it over; a shadow that Sherlock had no doubt noticed when he took the computer anyway. John wrote a mental note to himself to 'accidentally' pour a scalding hot cup of coffee directly onto the guy's bollocks at the very next available opportunity.
For now, though, he decided to let Sherlock stew over it anyway...just managing to get him out of the flat (with no tears shed, to boot!) had been a victory; there would have to be a gap of pacification before trying to press anything else on him. He gave the large hand clasped in his own a comforting squeeze and maneuvered around the exiting throng of people at the entrance gates to the park.
After selecting the right pathway to their particular destination, John thought that perhaps this would be one of those times that one of Sherlock's trance-like states would be a benefit, rather than a hinderance; otherwise, he might have realised exactly where he was being taken and turned right back around, regardless of a sore bottom and early bedtime awaiting him or not. So, the good doctor took advantage and kept his mouth shut, only going so far as to give a polite nod and smile to the last few straggling families they happened to pass. He also hoped that the slowing counter-traffic meant that the place would be deserted by the time they arrived...
When they did eventually arrive, a few short minutes later, the doctor cast a quick glance around , hoping...and yes! Thank Christ, God, Allah, Buddha, Gaia, or whatever higher power that chose to throw a little good fortune their way--just as he'd hoped, the late hour and approaching dusk made for a completely empty and almost-completely-private playground. Sherlock still remained absolutely oblivious to their surroundings...at least until he felt his coat being removed. He came back with a blink and slight shake of his head, and then the most charming, adorable look of bafflement John had ever witnessed cast over his features. The detective frowned slightly, more out of confusion than any actual displeasure; "...What are we doing here, John?"
John wrestled the coat the rest of the way off of impossibly long limbs and folded it over his own arm, then nodded towards the brightly painted equipment; "You've been cooped up all week, Sherlock...your mind needs a break, and your body needs the attention, instead. Look, there's a sandbox--want to go play there first?"
Sherlock still looked slightly ill-at-ease; "But what if...?"
"There's no one here, baby...most everyone's left already, and if someone happens to come 'round," John added, only because if he were to ever promise that they'd never get caught, then by God, that would be the day they were happened upon...and he didn't hold any illusions that they'd be lucky enough to only encounter people as accepting as Mrs. Hudson had been, "...then we can both tell them to piss off and mind their own fuckin' business, promise."
That earned him a faint smile. Encouraged, he gave the stubborn git a gentle push in the right direction. "Go on, baby boy...go play."
"I'm not a baby," Sherlock said, although his words lacked the usual steadfast conviction that normally punctuated his tone. In fact, John had just recently learned that this seemed to be a trigger phrase for the detective, for those moments when his mindset started to slip back into the very thing he insisted against. 'Little' Sherlock took a tentative step forward, then another...and then stopped completely and craned his neck, the softness slipping from his expression as he frowned again; "...I can already see the lumps of cat excrement from here," he said, both disappointed and disgusted. "At least, I hope that's from a cat," he added, muttering.
John stepped closer and observed as well, his upper lip curling in distaste. "That is nasty!...there are gonna be kids coming in with ringworm all week now; I'd bet money on it," he groused, then took Sherlock's hand. "Come this way, lad...you can play in the sand another time."
The little detective stood staring at the sandbox for a long time, however, and only shuffled along behind John after an insistent tug on his hand. He turned to look over his shoulder longingly...despite his initial apprehension, playing in the sand with all of the left-behind buckets and shovels and trucks had sounded very appealing to his little side; he turned back to see where Daddy was taking him now, and quite nearly poked himself right in the nose with his own thumb, ready and waiting to be popped into his open mouth. Apparently, he was already deeper than he thought...not deep enough to suck his thumb in public, however. He tucked it into his closed fist and lowered it away from his face.
John took no notice of the brief internal struggle going on behind him, though...he was too focused on the rest of the small playground. "You pick, little love...swings, or the slide?" he asked, pulling Sherlock to his side and beaming up at him expectantly.
The detective glanced at the slide--'little' or not, the image of himself climbing on that minuscule thing was laughable; his feet would probably touch the ground before even pushing off! Considering that; "...Swings?"
John couldn't have grinned any wider if he physically tried and gave him another nudge forward, while Sherlock wondered (and not for the first time) if the other man didn't take some of perverse satisfaction in pushing and pulling 'little' Sherlock everywhere...but before he could expound upon that theory any further, he felt a hand swat at his backside, driving his hips forward; "Well, go on, silly boy! You act like you've never played before, and Daddy knows that's just not true!" John said with a laugh.
Sherlock gave a small whinge as he reached back to cover his backside against any more playful (or what passed as John's definition of 'playful') smacks, and looked down at the other man; "...Daddy coming, too?" he asked, almost shyly.
"Why?...Do you want me to push you?"
The little detective nodded and, despite his previous efforts against it, let his finger drift to his mouth. "Aw, look at you..." John cooed--Sherlock would never cease to find new ways to be as adorable as fuckin'-possible. "Go pick one and sit there like a good boy, and Daddy'll push," he said, his heart fluttering.
Sherlock took a few steps forward and, after a moment's deliberation, settled on the far-right swing; someone (of considerable strength, and within an inch or so of his own height, he surmised) had pitched it up and over the top bar a few times, which wrapped the chains and elevated the seat an extra foot off the ground. When he took hold of the chains and sat, the soles of his shoes just barely scraped along the packed earth underneath...
...Perfect.
John watched (he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately, and he was just beginning to understand Sherlock's adamance on the importance of it) with a warm smile still spreading across his face; it had been a good month since they'd had any time to spare for being 'little' and that, along with the added stress of 'the bloody thing' plaguing the detective, was surely the root of the tantrum (God, how that word paled in comparison to what had actually happened!)...and John was just now realizing how much he'd missed having the little guy around.
"Daddy...?"
John came back out of his own head and chuckled at the picture before him...even in his usual attire of a tailored suit and fitted button-up shirt, there was something about him, about the way he looked, that was still purely 'little boy'; maybe it was the softening of his features, the way all his angles seemed to round off, rather than retain their usual hard edges, or maybe it was the wide-eyed, Disney-character-esque way he looked at you...but even without being able to pin it on one single thing (or maybe because he couldn't), John might as well be looking at a child playing dress-up in his Daddy's clothes. "You ready for a push, yeah?" he asked, and laughed at the energetic nod that answered him. "Alright, alright," he said, and walked around behind him, "but you hang on tightly, and let me know if it goes too high!" '...As if that's going to be an issue,' he added silently... but oh well, it made him feel better to have said it.
Sherlock waited until John was behind him and out of sight before grinning widely and readjusting his grip on the broad-linked, black chains and tucked his feet up higher off the ground in anticipation--when he felt John's hands on his back, the little bubble of excitement in his belly grew until he thought he couldn't, wouldn't, be able to sit still anymore...!
...and then it deflated, just as quickly as it had swelled, when all he got was a gentle push that sent him forward mere inches. A disenchanted "Aww!" fell from his lips as he looked over his shoulder at John and pouted.
John smirked and shook his head; "Figures that you'd be all gung-ho about it once you got started," he teased, and then held the flat of his hand down right in the line for Sherlock's bum to swing back into it with a muffled clap, turning the little detective's pout into a fit of giggles while he squirmed and flutter-kicked his feet. "No, Daddy!...High, please?" he begged, looking back again with that doe-eyed expression that he knew worked so well.
The doctor raised his eyebrow, as if to say 'uh-huh', but he sighed; the look did work, and he knew that Sherlock knew it...and what's more, he knew that Sherlock knew that he knew---and it still worked. "Fine," he said, resigning. "...but no higher than my shoulders, and if I see so much as a pinkie finger loosen its hold, we're going to stop and go straight home, understand?"
"Promise, promise promise promise promise!" Sherlock chanted, practically bouncing on the rubber seat by now. "High, Daddy...push high!"
"I'm gonna push 'high', little sir, but we have to start out slow and build up speed," John replied, his voice full of humour again; he was absolutely tickled shitless over how playful Sherlock was being now. He gave the back of the little detective's curly head a kiss and pushed him again, a notch harder than the last one.
Sherlock drew in a quick breath at the slight increase in speed and leaned into it as the swing lurched forward, and also made sure to keep his hands clamped around the chains, just as he promised. "Again, again!...more, Daddy!" he said, managing to squeeze in the words in-between the bouts of furious giggles.
John laughed and, of course, obliged...how could he not, with that gleeful little voice begging that way?" He pushed, and pushed, and pushed some more, until Sherlock was swinging in a wide arc, after having pumped his own legs to get just a wee bit higher than his Daddy had originally allowed (it was just a little higher, honest!)...and for a brief moment, John considered pulling the swing to a stop for a good talking-to--but one look at the little detective's face , with his eyes wide and sparkling with pleasure, and his mouth hanging open in one long, continuous, bubbly laugh while his curls blew back and forth in the breeze...well, he supposed that he could overlook the small lapse in the rules, just this once.
When the sun finally dipped well-below the treeline and cast the small playground into rapidly-dimming shadow, the doctor was almost as glum as the little detective was that the end to their outing was near. John grabbed one of the chains, as well as Sherlock's hip, to slow him down (without dumping him flat on his face, respectively); "I'm sorry, love," he said, above the grunts and other wordless forms of protest, "but I'm not in control of when it starts to get dark."
Sherlock peered up at him, his cheeks glowing pink from a combination of laughing and the slight chill now in the air, while his mouth turned down sharply at the corners and his brow furrowed in the middle. "Yes you are!..."
John had to physically force himself to not roll his eyes. "Sherlock, if you're going to strop about it, I'll think twice before I ever consider bringing you here again."
The little detective's face fell, losing any and all challenging edge to it, and he turned back to gaze down at his shoes while he scuffed the toe of one into the dirt before giving him a sad nod of his head. John felt it strike him right in the center of his heart, and he blew a puff of air between his lips--he didn't want to leave it like this, just end such a lovely, happy adventure on a bad note. He stepped over to the empty swing next to them and threw a leg over, straddling it and facing his broody little man-baby. "Sherlock, look at Daddy, please."
Sherlock did as prompted, and for the first time that evening, John was hit with the realization that the little detective, despite needing a bit of goading at first, had been listening and obeying remarkably well the entire time...unusual for him, especially when one took into account the mood and actions that had preceded the trip--"Look, that was a bit harsh, and I'm sorry...you have been an amazingly good boy for Daddy today, and I'm very proud of you."
Sherlock shifted his eyes over to John without lifting his head; "You are? Even after...?"
"Always," John replied, without a moment's hesitation. "Even during the worst of your fits, big or little; I may not always be proud of your actions, at times...but I'm always proud of you."
Sherlock pinched his lips together and looked away while John remained quiet, letting him have that moment to process whatever he needed to process; in the interim, the doctor took the opportunity to watch the last few weak rays of sunlight fade between the branches of the trees that lined the opposite side of the park and decided that, once the streetlights hummed on, he would be forced to interrupt Sherlock's reverie before someone came along and accused them of being degenerates out for a shag on the kiddie equipment.
He didn't have to worry for very long, however...he heard the metallic creaking of the chain's over on Sherlock's side, along with the scuffling of his shoes as he used his feet to push his swing close enough to place a soft kiss on John's cheek. "This was a lot of fun...thank you," he said quietly.
A slow smile curled at the edges of John's mouth, and he turned to bury his nose in the mop of mussed curls that now smelled of the crisp air that had been racing through it just a few short minutes ago. "You're most welcome...see, Daddy doesn't always have to be a hard-arse."
Sherlock's laugh took the form of a quick huff of air through his nose as he nuzzled closer and rubbed his cheek along John's knuckles while they still gripped the chain. "I knew you'd get the idea eventually."
It was John's turn to chuckle; "Cheeky little shit," he mumbled, taking one more deep breath of Eau de Sher'lock while he rubbed his hand down his back. "Let's go home, love, before people think we're up to something."
"You mean two grown men, one of whom just happens to like being treated like a young child, can't go cavorting about on a deserted playground...after dark, no less...without a sinister motivation? Wherever do you get these ideas, John..." the man grumbled, climbing out of his swing and snatching for his coat.
"Well, that was nice while it lasted," John snapped back; he didn't want to bring the evening to a close anymore than the detective did, and would have gladly pushed his pouty-arse all night...but such is life. "Any chance of 'little' Sherlock coming back for a bath and a bedtime story?" he asked dryly.
An odd look flashed across Sherlock's face before it went carefully blank. "Doubtful," he replied, his tone equally neutral and bland as his hands twisted his scarf into a complicated-looking knot with a flurry of rapid movements that the man made seem effortless. "I will not let that, that...repugnant collection of glorified plastic and tubes get the better of me." He finished his muttering and jerked the collar of his coat high up around his neck while he seethed.
John watched this spectacle with a wry smile.
"It's not funny, John...Satan lives in that circuitry!"
John snorted; "Okay, now...no need for anymore dramatics--why don't you reset it back to the factory settings and get rid of all the viruses that way?"
Sherlock paused mid-step; it was obvious that the thought had never occurred to him. "That would erase everything I'm trying to uncover, John...it would defeat the purpose entirely," he said, frowning...though, he didn't sound completely convinced, himself.
"Then use your computer to look up 'how to retrieve information from a reformatted laptop', or something akin to that...it's not impossible."
Sherlock was quite still, for a long time; "...How," he began slowly, his voice calm...which, contrary to the fact, was a combination that should have put John on high alert right then--if not the voice, then certainly the gradual tilt of the man's head as he considered the doctor from head-to-toe, "...do you know?"
John shrugged and fought back a bout of nervous laughter, though Sherlock would most likely find some minute twitch of his lip or eyebrow that would give him away; "It's what I had to do with my old PC when a trojan scrambled it, before I switched over to a Mac."
The only signs that gave away the detective's inner-fury were the immediate and intense colouring of his cheeks, and a slight tick of his jaw muscle; "And why...didn't you say anything sooner?" he hissed through clenched teeth.
John bit his lip and stuck his hands in his coat pockets, then shrugged again; "Dunno, thought you had some other 'genius' tactic in mind."
Sherlock inhaled sharply. "You looked to the left before you answered; you're lying," the detective snapped, and in one long stride, he was standing directly in front of John, glaring down at him and forcing the doctor to look up to meet his gaze.
Now that it was far, far too late to backtrack, the first hints of unease began to climb and flick at the back of John's throat; "I, uh, didn't want to interrupt you while you were busy?"
The look that sprung into the detective's already-flaming eyes spelled out John's total ruination in at least ten different ways, and was working on the eleventh, when the man suddenly closed them and took a long, deep breath, before he opened them again...
...and then, Sherlock smiled at him.
John swallowed with a bit of difficulty; that, was not a reassuring smile. "...Sherlock?"
Sherlock bent down sharply at the waist, putting the very tip of his nose to John's, smiling all the while..."I would tell you to start sleeping with one eye open, darling," he said, his now-sugary tone purring heavily on the 'ah'...which sent a very not-the-good-kind-of chill right down the doctor's spine, "...but even that won't save you from the payback you have coming your way."
John could only gawp at him, while a few wheezing croaks that were meant to be a protest squeezed out from his paralyzed throat. Sherlock straightened his back to his full height once again, his entire demeanour now loving and complacent as he reached for John's hand. "...Coming?" he asked, blinking innocently.
John stared at it and considered the fact that they were alone, in a pretty-much empty park, after sunset...with no witnesses about. He sighed and, with no small amount of caution, took the outstretched hand. "Sherlock, I...it was just a joke," he offered weakly.
The man gave a dismissive grunt in acknowledgment; "Mm, yes, a 'joke'...keep telling yourself that while you're sleeping on the couch--at least until I get that goddamned thing fixed," he added, still smiling pleasantly as he kept staring straight ahead.
John's head whipped around to look at him, aghast; "Aw, c'mon, Sherlock!" He'd almost rather take a spanking himself, instead--now that he was used to having a warm body sharing his bed, John loathed sleeping alone. "I said I was sorry!..." he pleaded (whinged would be a more accurate description, but the doctor was still trying to retain his footing in the role of the 'top' tonight...at least, that's what he convinced himself).
"Actually, no, you didn't...all you said was, 'it was just a joke'," Sherlock replied, dumbing down his voice into an extremely petulant, mocking fashion.
"Okay, now you're just being a dick about it."
"Takes one to know one."
"Oh, my God, are you fucking five?!?"
Both men stopped right in the middle of the pathway, each staring daggers at the other...and then dissolved into a fit of moronic giggling. And not a moment too soon, it seemed, as it ultimately (and thankfully, John thought) cleared away the ugly tension that tainted the air between them. Sherlock let go of John's hand to reach around his waist and replanted it in the doctor's right back pocket--John would have done the same, but since every square inch of the detective's back pockets were occupied by that gloriously plump arse of his, he settled for hooking his thumb into his waistband, right by his hipbone. "You can be a frightening motherfucker, Sherlock...but I love you."
"You're an obnoxious little shit with a Napoleon complex, and I love you, too," the other man replied, his tone genuine in it's warmth now, "...but you're still sleeping on the couch."
"Well, you'll be up all night messing with the computer, anyway, so at least we'll be in the same room."
Sherlock glanced at him sideways; "You're not off the hook, you know; I'm still getting you back for that."
"You're such a baby."
"So are you."
"Dick."
"Prick."
"...Love you."
"I've already said it back once; that's my quota for the day."
Both men were still chuckling heartily as they left through the gates, earning them quite a few odd looks and leery glances from the few people passing by on the sidewalk.
...Neither of the men looked too worried about it.