docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ It's been... a hectic couple of weeks. He's not quite sure how it happened (well, the coke is easily explained - he was bored - mind-numbingly, horrifyingly bored) but these days, he's just trying to survive his come-down, one crazy burst of activity at a time. Or several, really. He's currently running at least five (5) different experiments in the flat, some confined to Mrs. Hudson's fridge (blood coagulation in toes subjected to salt water for precisely fifteen minutes as well as one in her bedroom concerning the sporadic accumulation of dust bunnies around nail clippings), others to their own (samples of streptococcus pyrogenes in petri dishes as well as a somewhat more obscure study in hair comparison) and one confined to the small bowl of water in the sink. A very curious collection of algae from the Thames, collected yesterday (? the day before?) near Island Gardens, Millwall.

He's running back and forth between them, up and down the stairs, checking for progress and setting timers. From time to time he pauses, one hand against any nearby wall, re-finding his balance as he's intermittently wobbly on his feet at the moment. It's the lack of sleep. Lack of food. Lack of everything. Very briefly, he thinks about John.

Then, John actually speaks to him from the sitting room and he startles, visibly, very nearly plunging one hand directly into the algae soup. Hm. No, it wouldn't be interesting, abort. Frowning, he glances over his shoulder in John's general direction. When he speaks, he sounds slightly out of breath: ]

Hm?

[ The man sounds out of breath when he answers. Probably has to support himself against the kitchen table or the counter or, God forbid, the wall, because he needs to do that these days, seeing as he only sporadically sleeps, doesn't eat and hasn't showered in seventy-two, very smelly hours, not that -- that has an impact on his balance. John frowns, gets to his feet and heads for the bedroom, the one that's still theirs, despite the couple of nights when he moved back into his own. Over one shoulder, he shouts: ]

We're going to Helston in two hours from now. Time to shower.

[ And without further explanation, Sherlock will have to ask if he wants to know, if he can't bloody well deduce it by himself, wouldn't you think he needs the challenge at the moment, John starts fixing himself a trolley that'll last him at least two weeks, because this retreat is going to be until Sherlock's caught up with proper sleeping habits, gained at least a couple of pounds and can hold an erection again, so it might be a while, yes. Damn coke.

Busy folding his shirts, putting them away in a manner befitting a man who has travelled extensively during his day, John makes light work of the trolley, keeping an eye on the hallway, fully expecting the man to emerge within a five-second time span from now, probably protesting and probably in a mood not suited for any living thing. That's why he's working all that dead stuff around the building, isn't it? No mangled toes would complain about him. Algae, whatever. John's the only one with a heartbeat and thus, also the only one with enough heart to do something. Jesus. He folds his shirt with the black and white stripes. Helston's got a beautiful view of the seaside, it'll get chilly in the evenings, even in the middle of summer.

He remembers. ]

[ Ah - wait, what. He manages not to upend the algae, setting the timer for five minutes and checking the water temperature very quickly before scrambling after John, towards the bedroom. Pausing, one hand cradling the doorframe precariously, he leans forward slightly and looks at John's trolley. Helston, two hours. And the man's packing for what, two weeks? He frowns, fingers itching and his body positively screaming for coke. It's an old song, at this point, and he ignores it with relative ease. ]

I'm not leaving London for that long. [ Nod towards John's trolley. ] Who says I even want to go?

[ In the back of his mind, there's a voice of caution telling him very quietly that he's on a no-strikes system here; he fucked up once, with the heroin. Then, he fucked up again with the coke. It's hard because his brain tends to forget that John's opinion on these things matters, but the fact remains that the man might very well walk out once he's had enough and that would be... Well. He leans back against the doorframe, wobbling on his feet again. Shift. One foot to the other and back.

Helston, then. For weeks. Christ! He... rephrases his question. ]

Why Helston?

Edited 2020-05-07 17:32 (UTC)

[ There he comes. Scrambling. Sherlock keeps himself pretty much popped up against the doorframe and John watches him out the corner of his eye while he continues to fix his suitcase, trousers now. Jeans, first. They take up more space, logistically. Who says I even want to go, the other man asks, then, in his usual, charming fashion and John just raises an eyebrow at him, turning his head enough to meet his gaze. Oh, yes, who's saying you want to go? Only the same person who'd very much like to think you don't want him heading for the door in 3-2-1, Sherlock. Shit. A deep sigh. He's about to reply with something that's vaguely comeback-ish, vaguely pointed, but then Sherlock's stance changes. His expression, too, a little.

Why Helston?

Scoffing, John shakes his head, managing a tired smile. Okay, well played. ]

Know someone from Barts who lives a couple of miles outside. He's got a cottage reserved for us.

[ He thinks about the manor house Ingram's family owns, huge gardens, a small stretch of shore, too. Cottages strewn across the outskirts of their grounds, for rent during the summer, though they always keep a couple empty for their own use or for guests. He had stayed with two of their uni friends in a small brick wonder near the beach during that week, back then. They'd all snuck out at night, gone skinny-dipping.

Sherlock won't go skinny-dipping, however. He'd freeze. ]

[ He thinks about Helston, about Cornwall, what, close to six hours away by train? He's been there once before, years back, it's all flat planes and rough sea, lonely moors. Nothing much to do out there, especially not in a cottage lord knows how far away from human civilisation. Face tight, he turns away from the bedroom and starts dropping his clothes, leaving them in (admittedly smelly) heaps on the way to the bathroom. He'll be so far away from everything.

But not, as it were, from John Watson.

Turning on the spray, he steps into the tub and draws the curtain. The water's too cold and he shivers, clutching his arms and slouching pathetically while he waits for it to warm properly, eyeing the soap and thinking that at least, they'll be far away from temptation. Unless, of course, he brings just a tiny little amount with him... just a small stash, nothing serious, John won't even notice, it'll be -

With a growl, he slams his hand against the shower tiles (bam, ow, unwise) and soaps up immediately after, trying to forget that fact that he could, quite easily, shoot up and keep it a secret, make John believe that all is well, make a fool out of him like he's done so many times before to other people. But worse, somehow. Doesn't take a genius to understand how.

Hand throbbing, he pushes his face into the spray and keeps his eyes open. ]

Edited 2020-05-07 18:26 (UTC)

storyline one.

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