logicals | ic inbox | LITTLE HADES

'Secret' secret?

That sort of secret yes.

Want to help me taste test?

Your place or mine?

Mine. I can hide the evidence better.

Mm, no, I think Limbo hotel would be better. Less... grease.

Your call, if the Doc catches us I am not responsible.

Be there in.... 5?

[ Five seconds, not minutes. Hope you're decent. ]

Why would he? He uses his room for office space these days.

Suit yourself. OMW from LE.

IDK because he likes to be in your personal space?

I'll try not to eat any without you.

Hmm, he'd say it's more the other way round.

I hear patience is a virtue, archangel. Perhaps you should practise it.

Ewww gross. Deets plz.

Not one of mine. Mine are gluttony, lust, sloth and being that asshole that's always happy to be awake at 4am.

Edited 2016-07-16 19:46 (UTC)

Apparently I lack personal boundaries.

I suggest you hone in on sloth and have yourself a nap, then.

You? Really?

Are you honestly going to take that long? Dad should have given you all wheels

I'll be ten minutes at most, stop complaining.

I'll correct the crossword then*

* Hell crosswords are more entertaining because they often get the definition of the words wrong in the clue, making it near impossible to work out the answers.

Simple things please simple minds.

:P

If I didn't know you love me, I'd be hurt.

:)

Don't worry I wasn't gonna tell anyone, your secret is safe.

Shhh stop texting. Quiet time.

_{[ Which means he's in the elevator and has rusty service, so don't you dare text him when he can't bite back an instant retort.

Thankfully, the lift works without a hitch (for once), and Sherlock pushes his way into his own hotel room to find Gabriel already settled in amongst his things.

If he could teleport places... well, he'd probably still walk, because that's the type of person he is, apparently. Even the addition of wings hasn't dragged away his propensity to keep his feet on solid ground. Sherlock shrugs his way out of his coat, hangs it up on the hanger attached to the back of the door and toes his way out of his shoes before settling down onto his bed.

Wings. They're awkward. They make sitting against a headboard awkward. But he's come along in leaps and bounds since their last meeting in this room, which ... actually, let's not recall that weird argument/meeting/demon debriefing. It was... an odd blip in his otherwise pristine existence since shuffling off of his mortal coil.

Actually, that's a lie too, because there have been many moments since his death that have been less than pristine, but that's neither here nor there.

Sherlock looks over at Gabriel with a look that clearly says, 'well? Drugs?', eyebrow raised and head tilted just off to the side with the unspoken question. ]}

[Gabriel has settled himself into a chair, one leg folded over the other. He's flicked through anything that looked vaguely interesting, looked through the cupboards and then, as there was nothing else more interesting, he'd prodded people on the network.

Thankfully Sherlock isn't as slow as a number of other very slow things, although Gabriel is sure he's dragging his feet.

It's tempting to start without him, but he resists. Barely. Instead he's adjusted them on the cake stand. That's right, cake stand. Gabriel does not do anything by halves.

Maybe it's a little weird to watch Sherlock strip out of his coat and shoes so intently, the angel's head tipped to one side, but hey, he did eat a fair amount of the batter before baking the brownies themselves, so...

He gets to his feet, considering that Sherlock has just spent so long getting comfortable, and presents the brownies out to him, with a mocking little bow]

Did sir have a difficult day at the office?

[Okay, he can't keep up the Jeeves impression for long, and sits on the edge of the bed, taking a brownie for himself and digging in. It's one of the bigger ones. Chef's privilege.]

[ Fortunately for Gabriel, there are quite a few... interesting magazines lurking on random surfaces. Hell-brand, off the collar sort of stuff all about torture (with cutesy articles written as if they're aimed at bored housewives looking for the next new fad), all the latest Hell-fashions with Cosmo and let's not forget the never ending litany of gossip rags. It would seem Sherlock is stockpiling the Daily Pitchfork, too, but that's just an unimportant detail. Basically, there's plenty here to entertain, should Gabriel take the time to look around.

Why would he drag his feet when the promise of drugs has been tossed his way? Few things in Hell get Sherlock enthusiastic: getting stoned out of his head is absolutely one of them.

The mocking bow is met with an amused smirk as he leans forward and takes two. What? Did you think he did things in moderation? That's cute. He takes a careful bite out of the first one, just to check whether they are what Gabriel says they are (they do tend to have a certain... taste, after all); confirmation comes with a subtle nod as he chucks both into his mouth unceremoniously and swallows them down.

Edibles take ages to work. Might as well get a move on. ]

Hmm, not as tedious as it could have been.

_{[ Especially since Mycroft's doing all of his paperwork for him. Ah, free time at last, how he's missed you. The ex-consulting detective leans back against the headboard, crossing his feet at the ankles. ]}

[Magazines? He's not waiting to see a doctor. Although maybe he'll take the Cosmo with him. The quizzes are fun and normally there's an article called Thirty Things To Do With Your Tongue That Will Drive Him WILD! and they tend to be worth a read.

But none of that is actually as interesting as Sherlock. Which is why he only noting the name of the magazines littered the room in hopes they would tell him a little more about his strange friend.

Huh, he can take as many as he wants. They were made with him in mind, after all. And okay, you have to get him stoned, but at least making them ensures he actually eat something. And if they're hungry later, as they might well be, Gabriel has the number of Little Hade's only pizza delivery place on speed dial. You don't get what you ordered but at least it will be delivered.]

And there I was thinking you were enjoying everything you signed up for. How many jobs are you even doing?

[Sherlock, you have no right to complain about free time. You chose to take on all this work, you complained you were bored. Then again, Gabriel can't blame you for wanting your free time when your annoying older brother is stuck in Brimstone doing paperwork.]

[ Gabriel he'll know if you steal his Cosmo magazine. That is not for you.

Unfortunately, his eclectic collection of magazines gives little away, beyond having an odd interest in keeping up to date with all things Hellish. Or, more accurately, he has a bit of an invested interest in trying to understand what's considered the 'norm' around here, actively trying to discover the lay of the land through the general media.

He tends to avoid the tele, though. His hotel TV has been stuck on some grotesque porn channel since his arrival, and he certainly doesn't care enough to actively try and change it.

Well, two will do for now. He'll no doubt have another two when he feels as if the effects aren't coming on quickly enough, which is more than likely a mistake, but he's the type of person that enjoys doing things in excess. Moderation is for ordinary people.

Sneaky sneaky. Sherlock's doing just fine, thanks. Sure, he might have lost a bunch of weight, sure he might seem way too skinny for his height and yeah, ok, maybe he's a little bit pale, too - but it's fine. He's dead. Thankfully his death was largely non-scarring, so at least he has that going for him. No ugly bullet wounds marring mostly perfect skin or makeshift stitch jobs slowly healing over. ]

Depends what you count as 'jobs'. Two with Brimstone, one with the Reform branch. Then there's Dearstalker, obviously.

_{[ Codepushing is always thankless work, but it keeps him busy.

Then there's the torturing. Then there's the stalking. Free time truly is a luxury, and as simple as it is, with Mycroft vouching to do his paperwork, Sherlock really has found time to do... well, nothing. Which is both a good thing and a bad thing, obviously. ]}

What can I say? I like to keep myself busy.

_{[ You know what would help all of this along swimmingly? By getting a head start. Sherlock makes a very informed guess that Gabriel's come prepared (judging by the very obvious smell that greeted him when he stepped in through the hotel door), and decides that they might as well go all out, now that they're here.

Why not? Marijuana is hardly his drug of choice. It might even be fun. It's been ages since he's bothered, preferring to partake in drugs that have a more chemical feel to them, but his personal mantra as of late has been 'fuck it, I'm dead,' and once one adopts that perspective, it's significantly easier to let these things go.

Sherlock pushes himself up and after pulling out his packet of cigarettes, he selects one, licks a line up and along the side and tears the wet paper away. Grabbing an offhand magazine, he uses it as a makeshift table to pour the tobacco out before glancing up and over towards Gabriel, fingers now shuffling with the rolling papers he'd apparently bought on his way over. ]}

I seem to be missing a vital ingredient.

[Oh please, of course it's for him. He might not have read that one. And everyone should read cosmo. Maybe not for the make-up and fashion pieces but frankly, some of the other stuff is worth knowing. Even if you know it already, Gabriel has always found it useful to see these things from other people's points of view. Sherlock probably skips the tips about cunnilingus though.

And if he's avoiding the porn channel, he's probably missing some of the scripts Gabriel's been writing. Which is a pity, they're works of art, terrible art.

As for Sherlock's state of health, he seemed much healthier when Gabriel first met him. It can't be more than a few weeks ago, but he seemed to have at least a slightly healthier colour then. And maybe he's not actually lost weight, but it's hard to tell under the layers. Being that thin is not normal. But Gabriel knows that voicing that opinion will go down like a lead balloon, and he has no desire to make their friendship any more strained. He'll just get food into Sherlock anyway that he can. Even this way.

He reaches into a pocket, taking out the carefully sealed bag. He didn't throw all of it into the brownie mixture. He knew better than that. Besides, sneaky sneaky, not all the brownies on that tray are Mother's Secret Recipe. Some of them are just there for when they have munchies later.]

Yes, those and all the others. Did you work yourself like this top-side, or is this new?

[He doubts it's new, frankly. Sherlock doesn't seem the sort to sit around doing nothing all the time, or even part of it. But down here he seems to have gone into over-drive. Most people tend to chill out for a while, get used to the idea of being dead. Most people aren't Sherlock.

He hands over the packet, watching those long fingers work quickly and deftly. Of course Sherlock has plenty of practise doing this.]

Of all the stuff you humans like to snort, inject, shove up your asses or otherwise ingest, I've always thought this stuff was probably the nicest.

[Or at least, the least destructive.]

[ Sherlock should probably start sectioning magazines off into piles of read and unread so that his mischievous angelic friend can sort through and grab whatever takes his fancy - but then, Gabriel might just end up finding out more than he bargained for if he ends up taking random magazines. Information is power. He reads every tip.

The porn channel is awful. It figures Gabriel had a hand in generating what must be the cheesiest dialogue known to demon - not that Sherlock has spent any time actively watching it, mind. He really doesn't want the dulcet tones of porn echoing out into the hotel at large, thank you very much. Besides, the porn in Hell is apparently very specialist.

Unfortunately, the state of Sherlock's health has rather deteriorated. Without the inclination of survival hanging over his head, the need to sleep, eat and otherwise function seems to have largely gone out the window. He's mostly just existing day to day, although he has given up on the concept of forgoing sleep entirely - his mind was becoming foggier with each passing day he refused to give in, but it was a worthwhile experiment in pushing his new, dead boundaries.

Three days without sleep is about the longest he's decided he can cope with. Any longer than that and he comes a train wreck. ]

When the work was there, yes. I was at the mercy of the cases people wanted to provide, which meant that sometimes I was forced into having downtime whether I liked it or not.

_{[ Hint: he didn't like it.

Sherlock finishes rolling fairly quickly, moving to throw Gabriel a joint or two alongside whatever's leftover in the bag. ]}

You can snort, inject and make a suppository out of marijuana if you'd like, but it's definitely not the usual method of delivery.

_{[ By which he means: I'm not talking about other drugs with you.

Although the 'probably' Gabriel dropped implies the fact that he's speaking from an outsiders opinion, which means he hasn't actually tried snorting or injecting various chemicals into his bloodstream.

Which tends to be the general attitude, of course, but until you've tried, there's really no way of explaining or comparing it.

So he's not going to bother trying. He'll opt to pat down his pockets in search for his lighter instead before finally locating it on the bedside table beside his cigarettes. He fans his wings out carefully behind him, leans back into the headboard and lights up.

Sherlock then tosses the lighter over to Gabriel, impatient for the drugs to just work already.

Injecting is always so much quicker. ]}

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ailes_dor - 2016-08-11 22:16 (UTC) - Expand