Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
highfunctioning) wrote2012-06-21 09:35 am
highfunctioning) wrote2012-06-21 09:35 am
Day 114 [locked to John Watson]
Sherlock was back in the lab. Granted, he was accomplishing basically nothing, but staying in his room was garnering too much unwanted attention. So he decided a return to form was the only remedy, however mechanical. Currently he was running tests on a blood sample Mystique had been kind enough to furnish him with, and it served a double purpose; he'd been genuinely curious about her mutation, and she had been one of the over-interested parties who had demanded he "stop sulking." She had even been so bold as to suggest he "do something, anything", and far be it for him to deny her if she'd prefer to be stuck with needles. She had, however, made a funny "joke" about hunting him down if he allowed it to change ownership.
Mycroft would be pleased to note that he was not, in fact, high. His brother, rather unintentionally, had put Sherlock totally off the idea for the time being. It was no good transcending the mundane if Mycroft was lurking around the corner, watching him. Moreover, his brain had been so pathetically stagnant since Venice that he could hardly justify wasting the tiny phial on what currently passed for his life. But he made sure it was on hand at all times, in a pocket even as he slept. For security, though not entirely security from the threat of Mycroft finding and disposing of it. He would reach out and touch it intermittently, and he found the option implied by its proximity comforting.
The door opened, but he didn't bother looking up. The last thing he needed was to be drawn into a conversation with any of the other "scientists" on board. The only one he respected he had no designs on speaking to again, though his reasons were less than logical.
Mycroft would be pleased to note that he was not, in fact, high. His brother, rather unintentionally, had put Sherlock totally off the idea for the time being. It was no good transcending the mundane if Mycroft was lurking around the corner, watching him. Moreover, his brain had been so pathetically stagnant since Venice that he could hardly justify wasting the tiny phial on what currently passed for his life. But he made sure it was on hand at all times, in a pocket even as he slept. For security, though not entirely security from the threat of Mycroft finding and disposing of it. He would reach out and touch it intermittently, and he found the option implied by its proximity comforting.
The door opened, but he didn't bother looking up. The last thing he needed was to be drawn into a conversation with any of the other "scientists" on board. The only one he respected he had no designs on speaking to again, though his reasons were less than logical.
no subject
Then he sat back down again, suddenly breathing hard, his hands clenched tight around the edge of the seat, the edge digging into his fingers. He couldn't look up, couldn't see that nonchalant look on Sherlock's face like he was surprised at John's outburst, like it's all fine, because it wasn't all fine. It hadn't been for six bloody months, and Sherlock acting like that, like he didn't know...
His eyes were hot and he squeezed them shut, focusing on breathing like he'd learned to after Afghanistan, when he'd wake in the night with his heart threatening to hammer out of his chest. This was no different; in fact, in many ways it was worse.