Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notquiteheartless) wrote2012-07-27 09:15 pm
notquiteheartless) wrote2012-07-27 09:15 pm
Deduction 8 - [ action / audio ]
[Sherlock Holmes almost laughed when he opened his eyes. Seemed his nanny had finally gotten tired of his self-appointed task. The chair John Watson had occupied last night -- and nearly every third night this month -- was empty.
Sherlock had to be amused at the sincerity with which the doctor had clung to his task. He had been so determined to find some method of making his charge fall asleep without letting him resort to the proven opiates.
Doxepin? An utter failure. Vicious, bloody nightmares rendered what sleep the detective managed pointless. Nothing else had really taken hold, either.
But the latest attempt. Zolpidem. Not as effective as morphine or heroin might have been, but Sherlock knew he'd slept a dreamless six hours. The most promising results so far, certainly.
Sherlock went into the main room of the flat to report, but... something was wrong. That it was empty was odd enough, but it went beyond that. Little things were gone. Insignificant pieces in the whole, but he noticed. How could he not? All of them were John's things, too.
He went down the hall of the flat and opened the door. Bed made, perfectly crisp and tidy. But nothing else. Not even the clock by the bed John had used. All of it was gone. The walls were white, not the pale tan he'd helped paint them.
He tried twice to make a filtered message to John over the Journal before hurriedly crossing out the words when the filter refused to work.
Sherlock Holmes accepted the truth and returned to the main room. If he had to pry up every floorboard in the place, he would. He doubted that would prove necessary. An average mind was easy to outwit.]
[It's evening before Sherlock turns on the Journal to address Luceti.
He's sulking in an empty flat on the top floor of Community House Two. A small dish in front of him has twelve cigarette butts -- a cheap American brand -- in it, smoked down to the filters. A thirteenth is half finished and in his hand.
There isn't much to say. There are no explanations to give, deductions to reveal, or clues to interpret. There is just one simple fact.
Perhaps that's why it's so hard to say.]
John Watson's gone.
Sherlock had to be amused at the sincerity with which the doctor had clung to his task. He had been so determined to find some method of making his charge fall asleep without letting him resort to the proven opiates.
Doxepin? An utter failure. Vicious, bloody nightmares rendered what sleep the detective managed pointless. Nothing else had really taken hold, either.
But the latest attempt. Zolpidem. Not as effective as morphine or heroin might have been, but Sherlock knew he'd slept a dreamless six hours. The most promising results so far, certainly.
Sherlock went into the main room of the flat to report, but... something was wrong. That it was empty was odd enough, but it went beyond that. Little things were gone. Insignificant pieces in the whole, but he noticed. How could he not? All of them were John's things, too.
He went down the hall of the flat and opened the door. Bed made, perfectly crisp and tidy. But nothing else. Not even the clock by the bed John had used. All of it was gone. The walls were white, not the pale tan he'd helped paint them.
He tried twice to make a filtered message to John over the Journal before hurriedly crossing out the words when the filter refused to work.
Sherlock Holmes accepted the truth and returned to the main room. If he had to pry up every floorboard in the place, he would. He doubted that would prove necessary. An average mind was easy to outwit.]
[It's evening before Sherlock turns on the Journal to address Luceti.
He's sulking in an empty flat on the top floor of Community House Two. A small dish in front of him has twelve cigarette butts -- a cheap American brand -- in it, smoked down to the filters. A thirteenth is half finished and in his hand.
There isn't much to say. There are no explanations to give, deductions to reveal, or clues to interpret. There is just one simple fact.
Perhaps that's why it's so hard to say.]
John Watson's gone.
audio; tagging through hiatus is cool right
And when you say gone... [ He knows what he means. ]
audio; totally cool
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[And when Sherlock says "fine"...
Yeah. Everyone should know what that means.]
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[voice]
Then, utter dread and horror, because Sherlock is going to be utterly impossible.
...But honestly, she feels a bit sad for the Freak. Yes, he's a giant berk, but not an evil one like she once thought, and he deserves her empathy after...well, what happened. Back home.
He's back where he belongs, now. And safe from the Malnosso.
[voice]
[Because it's not just being alone. It's about not being in London, too. Not being able to run interference into anything that might try and cross paths with the doctor.]
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[Hello, number fourteen.]
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[video]
My condolences, Sherlock.
[video]
[Sixteen now. Seven left until he must stir and either find more cigarettes or something stronger.
Maybe he can find ones he has to roll himself. They'd occupy him better... and have a more pleasant taste.]
Thank you.
[She knows less about the situation-- about the threat of Moriarty and the belief John will have about his "death" (if he does not retain his memory of this place) and the opinion he had forced the public to have about his loyal friend-- but she is the one who has not tried to say John's better off in London.
She could have been forgiven for that remark.
He is trying very hard to disconnect from all of it.
"All lives end, all hears are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."
A weakness. To answer it was another memory.
"But, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."
He discarded the butt and lit number seventeen.]
Doing well, I hope.
Shame we haven't gotten our murder yet.
[Yes, that was said without filter. He doesn't really care.]
[Nothing]
The rest of the conversations going on are read and noted. Don't mind him. Law's just journal stalking as always.]]
[voice]
John's gone. He's the one Sherlock trusts all the time.
But she can't go one not saying anything. Not when she knows Sherlock's going to be hurting, even if he won't let it show, or he'll try not to.]
I'm sorry. [That's the easiest thing, so it comes out first. Then a moment later.] Do you want to go somewhere? Just for a walk or something. Anywhere.
[voice]
Simple, simple words. But they're better than being told John's better off in London.
No. No, he's not.
He breathed out, watching the smoke rise and dissipate.]
There's nothing to do here.
No work.
[And work is what keeps him sane.
But.
What would she do for him? How far could he push that?
He'd certainly try.]
I do need a favour.
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John had moved out, when he thought Sherlock died. Molly stayed away, she had to, but she still knows that much.
And she's pretty sure that Sherlock won't do that here. He's the kind who'll lock himself away instead.
But he's asking her for a favour. Something she can do, and her reply is quick.]
Sure. What do you need?
[voice] - [filtered 90%]
Dextroamphetamine.
At least a hundred milligrams. If it's in pill form? Ten milligram pills.
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And then she asks to be sure.]
You...you want me to get you drugs?
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[And his friend.
But he doesn't know the voice and the image to go with it. So, it's no insult to him, really, that this man doesn't know who John is.]
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[ Not quite bitter-- never for a stranger. Must be another generous act of the hosts. ]
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[On so many fronts, for Sherlock.]
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[ ...and blacksmiths, Tributes, soldiers of fortune... A doctor, while useful, is likely just as susceptible to selection as any other occupation. ]
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