ooc.
I'M GOING TO SET YOUR BLANKET ON FIRE. FOR NO REASON AT ALL.
ic.
It took Dahmer a long time to convince himself that he'd never see Sherlock again. It was a reluctant thought at first – his heart struggled to hold on, both to the memories and the vain hopes for a future. The more he justified this necessary change to himself, the easier it was to accept. Adapting – that was an entirely different matter. But months had passed since he'd last seen her, and the male honestly believed he had been doing better. Until now.
Was he angry? Of course he was – the emotion spiralled out in more than one direction, aimed at his old friend and himself. He never thought he'd see her here – even in his dreams, any reunion took place back in Jasper Valley, a result of him giving in to his yearnings and returning home in search of her. But to have her seek him out? He couldn't believe it had happened. He had long explained his trail of possessions left behind as an exercise in getting rid of memories. Just why would she come after him, anyway? Sherlock was never intentionally cruel to him – but a small part of Dahmer always felt as though theirs was a friendship of conveniences. He offered her a life that involves constant puzzles to keep her ever racing mind busy...and he, well. She was his partner. The love developed later.
So yes. He was angry. Pissed off indeed. The male was furious by how all the progress he believed he had made cracked and crumbled by the mere sight of her. He was angry that she would intrude on his peace – something he made an effort to seek out alone. It didn't matter how cowardly his departure had been. It was something he needed in order to survive. And he was so irrationally angry by how he could see himself slipping back into those deadly habits he spent months struggling against. All it would take was a few conversations, more than a few days' company spent with her. All that progress, fucking gone. Yeah, he was pissed.
But he didn't want her to know that. Along with his anger there was satisfaction mingling with his reeling thoughts. He wasn't as talented as Sherlock was when it came to reading others – although he was still skilled, especially when it came to his missions. But the one he could read the most was Sherlock herself. And he could tell, he could see it in her face for just a second: she was having difficulty reading him like the open book he'd always been. Triumph mixed with the anger, but he kept the smirk off his face. His eyes remained the same, his features blank. Angry? What makes you think that?
Dahmer took a few steps forward, but didn't draw close enough for any contact. He wouldn't be able to handle that. And he was also positive that an embrace was the farthest thought from his old friend's mind. She was probably more concerned with figuring out this latest puzzle. He wasn't going to help her in any way. Not with the anger, at least. A little surprised. But that goes without saying. Curious, too. He betrayed one habit he was prone to doing when puzzled: his left hand was brought from his side and ran along his face, tracing backwards to his ears and down his neck. He'd do it during missions, mostly – when it came to solving a particularly difficult case. Most of all though, he did it when attempting to figure out Sherlock's inner monologue. He wasn't going to leave the female guessing when it came to this, either. Dahmer was going to ask his old partner out front. What the hell are you doing here, Holmes? A slip, another indication of his anger. He used her surname.
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