Sherlock Holmes (sh_rl_ck_d) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2012-12-08 12:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed |
Who: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson
When: Saturday morning
Where: Their bedroom
What: I don't even know yet.
Rating: Low
Status: Ongoing and Closed
Sherlock, much to his annoyance, had been unable to keep track of how long they had been here now. The train had made things rather simple, because it was a dull, jarring place, but here so much had gone on, and so many people had arrived, and whilst Sherlock hadn't feared for his life or ended up abandoned and dying in the middle of a desert for a while, he was finding himself sinking into some kind of apathy that just didn't agree with him.
John, at least, was slightly more sociable than Sherlock. And if John had resorted to trying to coax Sherlock out of his room (and then their whole apartment, little steps at a time) then Sherlock was trying not to acknowledge it. There were too many people out there now. So much so that he had tucked all of his technology under one of the beds in one of the other rooms, feigning ignorance when asked for it.
His cow had gone. He was going to have to go and find her.
Sherlock lay spreadeagled on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He needed to get some things together and repaint the stars. That'd keep him occupied. But that involved going out and exploring and probably interacting and thank God no one had decided that they wanted to live with he and John because otherwise this might have turned into a (slightly less tragic version of) Othello with his entire world revolving around the bed in their room.
Maybe he had some psychological issues settling in. How interesting. Unfortunately Sherlock was both uninterested in finding and lacking in knowing uninvolved healthcare professionals.
So he'd stay in bed, plotting to one day find some chemicals to paint the stars on the ceiling.