Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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maskormenacelogs2014-11-18 08:40 am
could_be_dangerous) wrote in maskormenacelogs2014-11-18 08:40 am
Entry tags:
I am not eager to rehearse my thoughts and theory which you have forgotten [closed]
WHO: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
WHERE: Sherlock's apartment
WHEN: Mid-November?
WHAT: Somebody's buttblasted.
WARNINGS: Possible mention of violence, otherwise maybe not much? Who really knows. I'll edit as needed.
There are, even under these circumstances, certain expectations to satisfy, even d they're only Sherlock's. The bolt on the door is drawn. Shirt and jacket adjusted. Just as importantly, he busies himself with an electric kettle, recently-acquired and one of the few things adorning a surprisingly Spartan kitchen, marked by virtually none of the chaos and clutter which tends to follow Sherlock wherever he goes. It wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that he hasn't changed his ways in the slightest, that the clutter in fact lies elsewhere, and it does. Occasionally, Sherlock goes back to Baker Street.
Whether or not John will catch on, of course, remains to be seen.
It doesn't escape him, given how much time he's spent in his memory of late, that this mirrors the expectation of another arrival of a less desirable sort, and maybe that's appropriate. John is, no doubt, determined to make himself the stranger at the door, the creak of the floorboards, the intruder rather than the friend because that's what he does when Sherlock has done something to displease him. It's to be expected — he has been displeasing. All for the best, but not the easiest option for anyone involved. What John perhaps forgets is that Sherlock is very thoroughly involved. He will be reminded.
In the mean time, the stillness of ritual. One which generally requires more patience than he can muster with any skill when the world is too full of other distractions, but this one is relatively obscure and so for now Sherlock becomes a machine for chemistry, energy and reagents, which is of course all that's involved, one very simple reaction carefully controlled so as to create the optimal solution, flavour molecules in a density low in tannins, by degrees. It's child's play, and therefore generally not worth doing. But here they are, Sherlock mustering as much quiet solemnity as he can, some of it genuine, waiting.
And John... expected, not present. Their circles of space don't overlap much anymore.
WHERE: Sherlock's apartment
WHEN: Mid-November?
WHAT: Somebody's buttblasted.
WARNINGS: Possible mention of violence, otherwise maybe not much? Who really knows. I'll edit as needed.
There are, even under these circumstances, certain expectations to satisfy, even d they're only Sherlock's. The bolt on the door is drawn. Shirt and jacket adjusted. Just as importantly, he busies himself with an electric kettle, recently-acquired and one of the few things adorning a surprisingly Spartan kitchen, marked by virtually none of the chaos and clutter which tends to follow Sherlock wherever he goes. It wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that he hasn't changed his ways in the slightest, that the clutter in fact lies elsewhere, and it does. Occasionally, Sherlock goes back to Baker Street.
Whether or not John will catch on, of course, remains to be seen.
It doesn't escape him, given how much time he's spent in his memory of late, that this mirrors the expectation of another arrival of a less desirable sort, and maybe that's appropriate. John is, no doubt, determined to make himself the stranger at the door, the creak of the floorboards, the intruder rather than the friend because that's what he does when Sherlock has done something to displease him. It's to be expected — he has been displeasing. All for the best, but not the easiest option for anyone involved. What John perhaps forgets is that Sherlock is very thoroughly involved. He will be reminded.
In the mean time, the stillness of ritual. One which generally requires more patience than he can muster with any skill when the world is too full of other distractions, but this one is relatively obscure and so for now Sherlock becomes a machine for chemistry, energy and reagents, which is of course all that's involved, one very simple reaction carefully controlled so as to create the optimal solution, flavour molecules in a density low in tannins, by degrees. It's child's play, and therefore generally not worth doing. But here they are, Sherlock mustering as much quiet solemnity as he can, some of it genuine, waiting.
And John... expected, not present. Their circles of space don't overlap much anymore.
no subject
"Think I'll leave it for today, then. Whatever you've got in there, it's nothing compared to what I imagine it to be: the Taj Mahal meets Alice and Wonderland." He hastily pops a cupcake into his mouth as an old memory resurfaces, sending shivers up and down his spine while he chews in trepidation. Of course, he is curious about what else Sherlock has committed to his memory, but it isn't the sort of thing you ask when you come over to make peace.