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.
no subject
[And before you can interrupt with your medical ramblings--]
Do you think I started with hard opiates, John?
no subject
I try not to think on it at all, Sherlock.
no subject
Do you usually try to diagnose your patients before learning medical history that might be relevant?
[And... there it is. An attempt, really, at deflection. At making the matter about John when it's inching just a little too close to something personal about him.]
no subject
Usually, patients sort of offer that up, instead of expecting me to guess. Have you taken it before?
[ That was sort of a poor attempt, Sherlock. Not that John has recognized it for what it is, just a very poor choice of diversion tactic. ]
no subject
Though my use of heroin [because, really, he doesn't have much of a problem admitting to it when there are no drugs in the house that might be found because past drug use is very difficult to prosecute] as a sleep aid has been on-and-off for ten years.
3.5 millilitres per 50 millilitre syringe, in fact. Usually, two syringes needed.
[Facts and figures. Because he definitely does not care what John thinks of him for all this. ...Well, at least he has a damn good poker face.]
So. As I said. I won't even try anything less than 12 with doxepin.
no subject
And to John's credit, he manages not to look as upset as he feels. Perhaps his wings tighten a bit against his shoulders, but his face remains impassive.
There's the urge to quarrel over this, simply because John is distressed and that's what they tend to do. But Sherlock didn't have to say anything at all, he realizes that. If John acts poorly now, he'll never have this line of communication again. Compromise is the only response here. So, in the end, there's a nod. ]
All right. We'll try twelve.
[ We - let's try to keep together on this, Sherlock. ]
I can pick it up and take off for the day.
[ If... you need him here. The more John thinks about it, the more he is almost sure that's his plan. ]
no subject
[...Okay, so John's answer would probably be "yes." Especially when drugs are involved. But even Sherlock's tone isn't as biting as it should be. He can appreciate the compromise, and he's not looking for a row to ruin it. Not that he can let it pass without a word, either.
So. There. Token sarcasm for protest.
In reality... it's something to try. He doubts there is heroin or cocaine in this place, and while he's sure morphine would work, there's no reason not to try something else. Technically, after all, this could count as a prescription. Given by a doctor, after all. And prescriptions (even forged ones) make everything much easier.]
Twelve, then.
[With a doctor (and friend) present while he tried to sleep under it. Just in case.]
no subject
John pushes to a stand. The wings, pinned so tightly to his shoulders before, go lax and fold themselves loosely against his back. He gestures lightly with a hand toward the bottle. ]
We'll deal with that when you wake up.
[ Sherlock would be fine, at least so far as his body went. The mind... Well, one step at a time. That said, he moved to go back toward his room in order to get dressed enough to go out and make a quick note to the clinic staff that he was taking leave on short notice. Just like old times, that much. ]
no subject
Like it was and might have been in the world that creature-- Shifter, to use the term he'd read in the Journal-- had created. It made him uneasy, this reminder of trust. Of John trusting him, of him trusting John. That John would get him even this much, and that he'd accept it. That he wouldn't stubbornly demand what he knew worked but would alter his behaviour-- in however infuriatingly minor ways.
It's almost tempting to take his own leave of the flat. Find somewhere to spend a day or so, find a way to get morphine. Keep distance, put physical and emotional space back between him and John.]