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
"It's the best advice you'll get, if you're interested in your continued existence, at least."
no subject
"It was nice meeting you, Herr Holmes," he's polite, but any animation has gone out of him and he quietly makes his way past and back to Jet's room.
no subject