Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alldeduction) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-03-02 03:48 pm
alldeduction) wrote in thecapitol2014-03-02 03:48 pm
Entry tags:
open;
WHO| Sherlock and OPEN
WHAT| Sherlock wakes up in the capitol, a week and a half late
WHEN| Now
WHERE| District 2 Suite, elsewhere*
WARNINGS| Depression, possible mention of suicidal thought
((OOC: *I'm totally willing to use this as a catch-all post for threads with Sherlock over the next week or so, just pm me or hit me up on plurk and I'll make a new opening for you in the threads.))
He was late.
It wasn't that he knew it. Not reasonably, not intellectually. He could just feel it, as if he'd missed time and felt the hole it left. So when he opened his eyes and he was back in this room in the capitol, he knew in that very second that he was later than he'd ever been. He sat up, and the pain was gone. He'd lived with that endless pain for weeks, and here he was, brand new. Impossibly perfect.
Except that he wasn't. The scars where just invisible, criss-crossing deep under his skin where no one could see them.
He scrubbed his face with both hands before peeling out of bed, and immediately froze.
"Joan."
Later
He walked mutely to the closet so dutifully curated by his stylist, and picked out an outfit that was the least atrocious thing he could get his hands on. Something simple and black, high necked, long tailed. Everything he put on was black, he didn't feel like colour.
He wasn't supposed to be alive.
He stepped to his door and opened it. Emblazoned across it read the word Sadist in big, angry, spray-painted letters. He knew immediately who it was from, and reached out to touch them with a kind of muted disdain.
Disdain for himself, not the word. He had to work with the available evidence, and the evidence was giving truth to the statement.
WHAT| Sherlock wakes up in the capitol, a week and a half late
WHEN| Now
WHERE| District 2 Suite, elsewhere*
WARNINGS| Depression, possible mention of suicidal thought
((OOC: *I'm totally willing to use this as a catch-all post for threads with Sherlock over the next week or so, just pm me or hit me up on plurk and I'll make a new opening for you in the threads.))
He was late.
It wasn't that he knew it. Not reasonably, not intellectually. He could just feel it, as if he'd missed time and felt the hole it left. So when he opened his eyes and he was back in this room in the capitol, he knew in that very second that he was later than he'd ever been. He sat up, and the pain was gone. He'd lived with that endless pain for weeks, and here he was, brand new. Impossibly perfect.
Except that he wasn't. The scars where just invisible, criss-crossing deep under his skin where no one could see them.
He scrubbed his face with both hands before peeling out of bed, and immediately froze.
"Joan."
Later
He walked mutely to the closet so dutifully curated by his stylist, and picked out an outfit that was the least atrocious thing he could get his hands on. Something simple and black, high necked, long tailed. Everything he put on was black, he didn't feel like colour.
He wasn't supposed to be alive.
He stepped to his door and opened it. Emblazoned across it read the word Sadist in big, angry, spray-painted letters. He knew immediately who it was from, and reached out to touch them with a kind of muted disdain.
Disdain for himself, not the word. He had to work with the available evidence, and the evidence was giving truth to the statement.
no subject
"I pitied you," He lied, and the words ground through his throat like glass, but he knew he needed to get them out. Knew that he needed to put the distance between them, even if she didn't want it. "I pitied you, for having lost him, so I took you in, in the meantime. Because who wouldn't be drawn to this mind? Who would be able to give it up? But he's back, now, so I don't have to pretend. You have who you wanted."
no subject
And Sherlock lied to John. Pretended John was something more to him than he actually was. So why wouldn't he pretend this? For whatever reason?
"No." she said, low and very, very quiet, as if she didn't trust her own voice. "You don't pity people. And if it were true, if you were just humoring me? You wouldn't have broken Howard's hand like you did."
She was quiet again for a moment before lifting her face to meet his eyes, the pain still there.
"I hope John comes back," she said, her voice still quiet, but steady. "You need him."
She turned and went for the door.
no subject
But he hadn't listened to that hardened part of his heart in a long, long time.
"I simply don't like people touching my things," He said, talking about Howard, figuring he should phrase it in the worst way he could manage.
He would hate him for a while, he figured. But it was necessary. There wasn't meant to be two of him in the world. He had always meant to be singular. The world's only consulting detective.
But now there were two and he couldn't pretend that Joan was his anymore.
And couldn't believe that anyone would honestly consider him a friend, in the end.
He turned his back after her comment about John. There was nothing left to say.
no subject
She would return. But right now he needed space. And after he lashed out at her like that, so did she.
She opened the door, and looked at the paint there. She might have brought it up, had their conversation gone differently. Might have told him that of course he wasn't a sadist. But after this?
She went out, closed the door without a word, and left him to it.