Day 114 [locked to John Watson]
Jun. 21st, 2012 09:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
highfunctioningSherlock 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
Date: 2012-06-21 06:48 pm (UTC)He'd wandered in and out of rooms, picking up whatever wasn't nailed down, trying to find some obvious flaw that would allow him to write this all off as an involuntary acid trip or a coma hallucination. But everything was stupefyingly mundane, from the barbells in the gym room to the forlorn rag doll he found sitting in an empty dresser drawer. Sharon had said she didn't find the space part hard to believe; John was finding that this was just the newest chapter in a life that had spun increasingly out of his control, beginning with the moment he met Sherlock Holmes and ending here, on an abandoned bloody space station.
Along one of the walls a long, translucent set of doors emerged, proclaiming the room behind them the SCIENCE DEPARTMENT. John smiled. "Bet they don't keep milk alongside specimens in space," he muttered to himself, going through the doors. They hushed open for him, revealing a multi-level space complete with lifts, lab tables, microscopes and other paraphernalia that reminded him strongly of Baskerville, if it had been housed in the Starship Enterprise. He wandered through, thinking of maybe taking one of the little lifts up and exploring the upper levels. Then there was the sound of someone shifting behind him, and he turned, ready to apologize for disturbing someone's quiet.
Sherlock was sitting at a lab table, space-age mobile on the table beside him, alternating between staring into a microscope and furiously scribbling on a computer tablet.
John blinked hard a few times, but nothing happened. Sherlock stayed where he was, not even showing any signs of awareness that there was another person in the room. The nape of his neck prickled with the urge to run. If he left, he could go lie back down in the room he had halfheartedly claimed as his own, lie down with a determination to sleep in the hopes that when he woke up he'd be back in his awful bedsit with the upstairs neighbor who gave accordion lessons and the next-door neighbor with four cats and a single daughter, because at least if that happened, if he woke back up in his miserable excuse for a life in London, at least he wouldn't be cursed with this terrible clutching hope.
He couldn't make himself speak. He sat down on one of the stools and waited for Sherlock to look up.