notquiteheartless | Deduction 2

[They'd agreed to a week. A week without incident, of rest and recovery. Then, the unspoken half of it went, they would go their separate ways.

But after ten whole days without another word said about moving or kicking out...

The video feed kicks on in the early afternoon, aimed at one of the plain white walls of 2-21.]

This is unacceptable.

[Sherlock Holmes is back on his feet and physically feeling much better.

Sorry, Luceti.]

I need paint, wallpaper, and glue. Lots of all of it. Where can I find it?

Also. Regarding the hideously plain excuses for furniture in this flat-- There are obviously no cabs here, so I'm going to assume there are no trucks. How am I supposed to realistically re-furnish a flat? Surely in a place where wings are mysteriously attached to people, there is something better than just carting furniture almost a kilometre.

On a final note: If a human skull shows up in the item shop, it is mine. Return it to me at Community House 2, Room 21.

(Two edits:
A. the Imperial measurement is gone. Bad Lynn. No miles. Kilometres!
B. I spaced about the "only a mile wide" thing and was looking at the scale to try and figure it out. That's fixed in the entry too, now. Sorry about that.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I don't care what other people think of me. ["Other people" could include John.

It doesn't. But it could.] I don't care what Scotland Yard thinks of me, I don't care what reporters think of me, I don't care what the "public" thinks of me.

Whether it's those stupid articles John was always reading and worrying over or whether or not people "like" me.

I. don't. care.

It doesn't change who I am, what I think, or what I do. Caring about what other people think? Wastes time and energy. Perhaps it's perfectly fine for someone less intelligent. Someone ["ordinary," a voice in his head he doesn't like supplies] average might not have anything better to think about.

I do.

God, you're such a ponce. You can't go three minutes together without being such a ponce.

Feelings are not a disease that only plagues the lower class, Sherlock, they are what allow real people to live the human experience. They're what everyone besides you and a handful of the prison population has and deals with every day and that doesn't make us weak or stupid - if anything, it makes us stronger. The rest of us can't just decide not to care.

Emotions are messy and complicated and inconvenient. I'm not denying that. But I'd take being genuinely happy and having people to love over an adrenaline rush any day, and if you wouldn't, I feel sorry for you.

[And she does. She honestly does, which is...startling.]

"Real people." Yes, John likes to talk about those. Perhaps you two could have a nice little chat about them.

["Real people don't have arch enemies."

God. These people. They don't ever stop. They can't just let him be, can they? Not one of them.]

Have a good day, Sergeant Donovan.

[Pure ice.]

Oh, please. You weren't being completely awful a moment ago. And how is it you claim not to care what anyone thinks of you, and you take offense to the Pinocchio comment?

[There are no words for Sally's exasperation, but she tries to rein it in for the sake of being more mature than the Freak.

Besides, much as it pains her, she can see that being implied to not be a real person might hurt someone's completely non-existent feelings.]

Look...you are what - who you are, and I guess that's not going to change overnight, if at all. Fine. No feelings for you. But can't you at least understand why treating people horribly at all times is unacceptable behavior? Do you actually get it, Sherlock, because I'm starting to think I don't know anymore.

When have I ever cared about "acceptable behaviour"?

I get results.

And at the end of the day, that's all anyone really cares about. All anyone should care about. Cases closed, criminals stopped.

Nothing else matters, especially not to me.

My god, why do I even try. Really, why? Lestrade couldn't do it, and he likes you.

I honestly cannot understand what Dr. Watson sees in you. Not that we speak often, but he always seemed like a perfectly nice man...

[There's a pause. Maybe he's just going to ignore it?]

I don't think anyone knows that. Maybe he does, but I doubt it.

[He's calm now. Talking about a simple fact. And there's an implication in the undertone of the words. Might be easily missed... and it might not even be there at all. Perhaps it would be giving him too much credit to think he could admit that even he doesn't know why.]

Hm. Opposites attract, I guess.

...I'm tempted to ask if you're really as bad at home as you are on the job, but I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

Considering I don't mind my behaviour, you'd really have to ask him.

[And back to flippant.]

Well, your flat is a major health and safety hazard, so I don't suppose I really do.

[The skull. The bullet holes. The eyeballs. Oh, the humanity.]

"Safety hazard" is part of the appeal. [Probably sarcasm. Or at least still flippant.]

Oh, for you, I'm sure it is. Every time I'm there, I find myself wondering if your poor landlady is going to get a hand blown off by something combustible hidden under a tea towel.

Mrs Hudson knows to leave my experiments alone.

You do know you're not actually allowed severed human body parts for personal use? And that firing a gun - which I am almost entirely certain you obtained illegally - indoors is very, very much against the law?

One thing I have to thank you two for is teaching me not to take it for granted when a man leaves his pants on the floor of the toilet and lets the milk go off because it could always be so much worse.

And yet I routinely have the fine officers of Scotland Yard in my flat and no legal action is ever taken.

I think that says everything, now doesn't it, Sally?

It says that I hate my boss.

[No she doesn't. At all. But sometimes his decisions drive her insane even though she knows they can't put Sherlock in jail in case they need him to put someone in jail.

She was pretty chuffed with him for the drugs bust, though.]

[It's almost silence. Almost.

But there is a sound. A quiet one. Half mutter, half snort. Derision? Or something more... warning?

Don't think he's unaware or has forgotten who is responsible for the Chief Superintendent showing up at his flat.

...Yes, he knows she doesn't mean it. But that hits too close to home. Closer, with who she is, than any remark about John.]

[What was that noise about. Oh he isn't seriously throwing a fit over this. Is he? Of course he is.]

Oh, don't bother getting your knickers in a twist; Lestrade's a good man and I've nothing but respect for him. You're allowed to pretend to hate your boss. In fact, it's often encouraged.

[But her voice sort of trails off into an almost-mumble near the end, not because it isn't true, but because...well, Chief Superintendent, Sherlock's flat, etc.

Teaching tact by example is hitting a few roadblocks.]

Then we agree on one point.

[He isn't going to say which one. Because he feels it should be perfectly obvious. And the rest... No. He's not even going to bother with the rest. It's not worth it.

Even if there's quite a lot he'd like to say about respect and loyalty.]

Yeah, I should hope we do.

[And that's about all she's really got to say about that.]

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