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;
[And when Sherlock says "fine"...
Yeah. Everyone should know what that means.]
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Regarding your tiny snapshot picture very seriously there, Sherlock. ] Don't do anything stupid. Well, not too stupid.
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[It's almost defensive. But stops just shy of it.]
I'll be fine.
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[The tone's more vicious than he actually meant. Sharper, chosen to start cutting away at the ties that bind him to anything and anyone.
It's easiest and hardest to start here. With the person who's put up with more than anything, except Mycroft. But Mycroft wasn't used against him, not really.
Mycroft had known precisely what James Moriarty would do with that information, and he'd handed it over. Probably without much of a fight. No more problems to have to clean up after.
(Really, to some extent, Sherlock knew better. But he was inclined to be bitter right now, to lash out mentally against anyone he could.)]
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[No, he's really not.
But he should be. This shouldn't matter. He'd had flatmates before and watched every single one of them move out and it hadn't ever mattered.
None of them had taken an interest in his work. In him. None of them had forced their way into his life and stayed.]
I've got cigarettes. [A pause.] And nothing else.
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Alright. Let's keep it that way. [ It's an automatic sort of precaution by now, really. One he'll probably always be making. Sherlock's been clean for a good long while, and he'd prefer to think he's more than stubborn enough to keep it that way, but it's not like addiction is something that vanishes entirely. This is hardly London-with-cases. ] Something'll turn up.
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[Maybe he's trying to do what he often did to John. Pick a fight to fight.]
My luck's not that good here.
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'scuse me, then. Next time I'll just tell you it's hopeless and you're gonna be miserable forever.
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I'm not miserable.
[Yes he is.]
I'm fine.
No worse than I was before I came here.
[Then, though, he'd had his cocaine to let him work.]
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