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Ten days without a case. Ten days. Sherlock was out of his mind for it. Dozens of would-be cases had come in to his inbox and been dismissed quickly for one reason or another, solved, puerile, boring. It was past the phase where he'd likely blow holes in the walls of the flat, save for the fact that John's taken fresh measures at locking the firearms away from him, damn him.
It would seem that everything about Sherlock is building to a crescendo in the absence of work, even if realistically he's always on an ever escalating path to some madness or other. At least, though, when he's got a case, all this energy is focused in one direction. The past week and a half have been spent tearing through the flat. It's left his bedroom in wild disarray and the kitchen sink half out of commission. Which is to say that one basin is being used to test post-mortem bloat and skin slippage of something that's held submerged at the bottom tied to a weight - what that is, God only knows. There were a string of days in there where Sherlock hadn't bathed, hadn't checked in on his various experiments all over the flat - thankfully that string has been broken today with a long hot shower followed with more of the same. Pacing, staring, checking the website, and pestering John as if he has some kind of answer. As if he's holding out on him.
There's two emails he's just read not long ago, and he's not even going to bother writing them back right now. They barely had cause to write - it ought to be obvious, the answer - and so he's perched the laptop on a nearby pile of books and is sitting, staring into the fireplace, apparently lost in thought.
It would seem that everything about Sherlock is building to a crescendo in the absence of work, even if realistically he's always on an ever escalating path to some madness or other. At least, though, when he's got a case, all this energy is focused in one direction. The past week and a half have been spent tearing through the flat. It's left his bedroom in wild disarray and the kitchen sink half out of commission. Which is to say that one basin is being used to test post-mortem bloat and skin slippage of something that's held submerged at the bottom tied to a weight - what that is, God only knows. There were a string of days in there where Sherlock hadn't bathed, hadn't checked in on his various experiments all over the flat - thankfully that string has been broken today with a long hot shower followed with more of the same. Pacing, staring, checking the website, and pestering John as if he has some kind of answer. As if he's holding out on him.
There's two emails he's just read not long ago, and he's not even going to bother writing them back right now. They barely had cause to write - it ought to be obvious, the answer - and so he's perched the laptop on a nearby pile of books and is sitting, staring into the fireplace, apparently lost in thought.
The art of losing isn't hard to master
Feb. 12th, 2014 12:18 amSherlock had known that things would change. He wasn't actually an idiot, despite his dear brother's insistence otherwise.
Things had already changed. It wasn't just he and John against the world anymore. It was he and John and Mary. And he and John and Mary's ever growing reminder that there would be a baby. And then Sherlock would lose him again, but this time would be so much worse, because the baby will do what all babies do. It will change John. It will tether him to their flat, keep him up all hours so that he's not available to come out and solve crimes with him, and worst of all, the baby is going to make John responsible. He isn't going to be game for weeks on end of risking his neck, because he's got a baby at home to take care of, a wife that he could leave a widow. John has something to lose now.
The baby, as it happened, had come early. It's some two weeks later, and all the congratulations have passed and left the new parents thrust into parenthood. Just as he'd predicted, John is always tired, always helping Mary, and not free to come pay attention to him. It isn't as though there's anything to do, really. There's no word on Moriarty yet, just this waiting game that's weighing heavily over them all.
Sherlock isn't coping well, which is to say he isn't coping at all. He's blitzed out of his mind, or just to this side of it. It's hard to tell anymore. It's been days that he's been here, holed up in his flat, the curtains drawn against the milky light of London. He'd had to travel outside of London to get these drugs. He's furious about that, but the anger has ebbed away for the moment. Now, he's floating. Heavy, warm, drifting within his own mind, stretched out on the sofa, pajama bottoms and unzipped hoodie the only things he's wearing. There's a mess around him, clothes he's worn in the past few days and shucked off. Drug paraphernalia on the table.
His phone is somewhere across the room. It's been buzzing intermittently. It's Mycroft. He doesn't need to look at it to know. Mycroft has been calling and answering the phone to talk to his dear brother is the very last thing he's going to be doing.
Things had already changed. It wasn't just he and John against the world anymore. It was he and John and Mary. And he and John and Mary's ever growing reminder that there would be a baby. And then Sherlock would lose him again, but this time would be so much worse, because the baby will do what all babies do. It will change John. It will tether him to their flat, keep him up all hours so that he's not available to come out and solve crimes with him, and worst of all, the baby is going to make John responsible. He isn't going to be game for weeks on end of risking his neck, because he's got a baby at home to take care of, a wife that he could leave a widow. John has something to lose now.
The baby, as it happened, had come early. It's some two weeks later, and all the congratulations have passed and left the new parents thrust into parenthood. Just as he'd predicted, John is always tired, always helping Mary, and not free to come pay attention to him. It isn't as though there's anything to do, really. There's no word on Moriarty yet, just this waiting game that's weighing heavily over them all.
Sherlock isn't coping well, which is to say he isn't coping at all. He's blitzed out of his mind, or just to this side of it. It's hard to tell anymore. It's been days that he's been here, holed up in his flat, the curtains drawn against the milky light of London. He'd had to travel outside of London to get these drugs. He's furious about that, but the anger has ebbed away for the moment. Now, he's floating. Heavy, warm, drifting within his own mind, stretched out on the sofa, pajama bottoms and unzipped hoodie the only things he's wearing. There's a mess around him, clothes he's worn in the past few days and shucked off. Drug paraphernalia on the table.
His phone is somewhere across the room. It's been buzzing intermittently. It's Mycroft. He doesn't need to look at it to know. Mycroft has been calling and answering the phone to talk to his dear brother is the very last thing he's going to be doing.
