"Eloquent," Sherlock can't help but snap towards Bradbury. It helps take the edge off; it keeps him from running forward and beating the shadow to a powder. The whole time, his eyes stay on the two forms of what might both be John. To act like he didn't know John is ever resentful of things in his life would be absolutely foolish. Harry was a barely functioning mess, and Mycroft puts him up to insurmountable things simply because the elder Holmes can't find it in himself to act as a brother to Sherlock, not openly.

And here, John doesn't have to deal with Sherlock at all. He looks down the whole, and the sky seems infinite. Neither Rossum or St. Bart's are anywhere in sight. It's still easier than looking the wolf in the eye as it nervously burrows away.

"That's what girlfriends' sofas are for, aren't they?" It's a joke, but Sherlock sounds anything but amused. He tries to crack a smirk, but he can't hide the sadness here like he could in reality. "You'll die if you stay here. I don't care if you hate me, but you can't want that." He shakes his head, standing straighter. If the shadow wanted to keep John here, he'd have to kill him first.

"You don't actually believe you're just a cleaner, do you?" The brief sight of sorrow is replaced with his calm mask again. "A valet wouldn't find the Bruce-Partington plans."