Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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asgardmeridiem2014-04-26 12:44 pm
could_be_dangerous) wrote in asgardmeridiem2014-04-26 12:44 pm
Entry tags:
[closed] you know only a heap of broken images, where the sun beats
Who: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
What: Still less embarrassing than stag night
When: Day 437
Where: At home
Rating: PG-13, idk
The length of the day is measured out in increments of increasing uncertainty as to the necessity of Sherlock's involvement in this grand experiment. The ridiculousness of it hardly escapes him, the process is decidedly ignoble and its ultimate efficacy strikes him as dubious at best, and yet -- and yet -- he finds himself in the uncomfortable position of having been badgered into helping the very set of people he finds himself least inclined to help. Sullenly, regardless of the risks, he finds himself hoping it doesn't work: then maybe in the empty spaces they'll find a way to go home.
But time ticks on. Sherlock settles into a sullen slouch and toys with the shadows of leaves stirred by the wind flickering against the wall, becoming with time and the approach of possibly inclement weather a dizzying, surprisingly wearying Rorschach blot in which, in a moment of fancy, he imagines some elements of himself might be hidden. The worst part of it is that it isn't a useless exercise. There's still plenty to learn about what he can and cannot do, and how or how not to do it, even like this, in this glorified shadow play.
As the day progresses it seems less urgent. Much else does too, and Sherlock regards the play of the shadows with a bleary, meditative curiosity, a frown creeping onto his features and staying. There is air in his lungs. He exhales and the shadows of the leaves flicker wildly, though outside they're still. Sherlock fades, and lets go, and finds himself slipping back to himself. He stifles a yawn and turns his gaze out the window.
How long it is between then and the opening of the door, how many people have come and gone, he has idly, sleepily refused to count. It doesn't matter. All that does matter is that he's been at home alone with all of this silliness, and though it occurs to him in brief to scold, all that he manages is a surprisingly genuine, "Hello."
What: Still less embarrassing than stag night
When: Day 437
Where: At home
Rating: PG-13, idk
The length of the day is measured out in increments of increasing uncertainty as to the necessity of Sherlock's involvement in this grand experiment. The ridiculousness of it hardly escapes him, the process is decidedly ignoble and its ultimate efficacy strikes him as dubious at best, and yet -- and yet -- he finds himself in the uncomfortable position of having been badgered into helping the very set of people he finds himself least inclined to help. Sullenly, regardless of the risks, he finds himself hoping it doesn't work: then maybe in the empty spaces they'll find a way to go home.
But time ticks on. Sherlock settles into a sullen slouch and toys with the shadows of leaves stirred by the wind flickering against the wall, becoming with time and the approach of possibly inclement weather a dizzying, surprisingly wearying Rorschach blot in which, in a moment of fancy, he imagines some elements of himself might be hidden. The worst part of it is that it isn't a useless exercise. There's still plenty to learn about what he can and cannot do, and how or how not to do it, even like this, in this glorified shadow play.
As the day progresses it seems less urgent. Much else does too, and Sherlock regards the play of the shadows with a bleary, meditative curiosity, a frown creeping onto his features and staying. There is air in his lungs. He exhales and the shadows of the leaves flicker wildly, though outside they're still. Sherlock fades, and lets go, and finds himself slipping back to himself. He stifles a yawn and turns his gaze out the window.
How long it is between then and the opening of the door, how many people have come and gone, he has idly, sleepily refused to count. It doesn't matter. All that does matter is that he's been at home alone with all of this silliness, and though it occurs to him in brief to scold, all that he manages is a surprisingly genuine, "Hello."
no subject
When he comes back to their apartment, he doesn't know what he'll find. Which, really, is just like any other day.
He can't say, however, that he expects to find Sherlock draped lazily and greeting him like that. It is all just ... very uncharacteristic. And very much like John feels too.
Okay. Creepy.
Still, he finds himself smiling, even as he tiredly rubs his eyes.
"Hello."
no subject
"I've been brilliant today. You'd be amazed at what I've sorted out." He can't articulate it, not at the moment, possibly not ever -- it must feel different to different people, the way these powers work -- but all the same he was, and warmth and laziness make him say it, because being brilliant is being generous. John loves it when he's brilliant. Only...
Only it'd be much easier to carry on being brilliant if he weren't so tired. "Frankly I can't imagine why you bother to leave at all anymore; they're all so boring."
Everything is boring. This seems, somehow, less of a concern than it usually does. He sits up just a bit too sharply, eyes narrowed with a vague suspicion he can't quantify, but his expression smooths out again when he finds himself quite simply too lazy to pursue it. That's odd too. All of this is odd. Isn't it?