Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notquiteheartless) wrote2012-07-06 10:07 pm
notquiteheartless) wrote2012-07-06 10:07 pm
Deduction 7 - [ audio ]
[All the king's horses...
"I am not my brother."
"If you want me to shake hands with you in Hell..."
He's listened to the recordings all night, low enough to keep himself from waking John. Moriarty is taunting him. Daring him. He wants to be struck at. He wants an attack.
Sherlock is hours away from obliging him.
He even has the small bottle, carefully sealed with a cork, in his hand. The white powder is poison, and John will not misunderstand. He saw the creation and storing of it himself.
But Sherlock can feel it as he turns the bottle over in his fingers, rolls it down them carefully and into his palm. He can feel the long-ignored craving for a different white powder. The stimulant to spur him into action. With just a little cocaine, he could go after Moriarty. The sedative to keep him at bay. Heroin would afford him six hours, at least, of sleep.
The medical supplies here much contain morphine, at least.
What would it take to...
...No. He'd never convince John to get him any.
Maybe he could plead a cigarette or two from the doctor, but nicotine would do nothing for him, would satisfy no urges. He needed something stronger.
John wouldn't supply him. Sherlock knew that. If he wanted morphine, he'd have to steal it himself. Or enlist other help.
For now, though, he'd try and ignore the stagnation threatening to drive him out of his mind.]
No laptop. No internet. No newspapers.
Completely isolated from the world.
No cases.
It's like the quaint little country vacation John keeps saying I need to take. [He does not seem to like that idea at all.]
Okay. I've taken it.
I'm done with it now.
I'm bored.
I want to be back in London. I want to be back at my work. I need to get back to my work.
"I am not my brother."
"If you want me to shake hands with you in Hell..."
He's listened to the recordings all night, low enough to keep himself from waking John. Moriarty is taunting him. Daring him. He wants to be struck at. He wants an attack.
Sherlock is hours away from obliging him.
He even has the small bottle, carefully sealed with a cork, in his hand. The white powder is poison, and John will not misunderstand. He saw the creation and storing of it himself.
But Sherlock can feel it as he turns the bottle over in his fingers, rolls it down them carefully and into his palm. He can feel the long-ignored craving for a different white powder. The stimulant to spur him into action. With just a little cocaine, he could go after Moriarty. The sedative to keep him at bay. Heroin would afford him six hours, at least, of sleep.
The medical supplies here much contain morphine, at least.
What would it take to...
...No. He'd never convince John to get him any.
Maybe he could plead a cigarette or two from the doctor, but nicotine would do nothing for him, would satisfy no urges. He needed something stronger.
John wouldn't supply him. Sherlock knew that. If he wanted morphine, he'd have to steal it himself. Or enlist other help.
For now, though, he'd try and ignore the stagnation threatening to drive him out of his mind.]
No laptop. No internet. No newspapers.
Completely isolated from the world.
No cases.
It's like the quaint little country vacation John keeps saying I need to take. [He does not seem to like that idea at all.]
Okay. I've taken it.
I'm done with it now.
I'm bored.
I want to be back in London. I want to be back at my work. I need to get back to my work.
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