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
"Moriarty," he said.
It was hard to say more. If Sherlock didn't know, didn't remember, John didn't want to be the one to tell him-- and how would he find the words for it, anyway? It had been hard enough watching Sherlock go through once. He didn't want-- didn't think he could bear-- to bring him a story like that.
But there was no chance that Sherlock would let him get away with a one-word answer.
"He... came out with evidence that he was an actor you'd paid to play Moriarty. That you'd made up all the crimes just so you could solve them. He convinced everyone you were a fake." He addressed it to the tabletop, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes.