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ic inbox | LITTLE HADES
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text; un: notmydivision 1/2
text > action 2/2
A part of him knows that this is unreasonable. As far as existence in Hell, he has far less to complain about than most people he knows. He's just... worried, caught in bad memories, and still vaguely sore from a situation that he still doesn't know that he handled properly. He probably didn't have much of a choice, just as he doesn't have a lot of choices now, but still. There's frustration there that he can't really vent about, not without spurring someone into being irrationally protective.
Sherlock already knows, of course. It's not exactly an impressive leap of logic for him to make, after all.
Greg sighs, letting himself sink a little further into the couch. Princess has taken up residence in his lap, she's been practically glued to his ankles without Gabriel around, and is apparently content to sleep there even when Greg moves to refill his glass. ]
text & action??
[ Well, it's either rum or scotch. 50/50 chance but he's going on a hunch - the scotch is more Sherlock's, even if he's barely touched it and Lestrade is the sort to appreciate boundaries most of the time.
Sherlock is aware of Lestrade's recently difficulties. It's hard not to be, but Sherlock has been practicing something called 'tact' when it comes to mentioning matters that don't strictly concern him. It's one thing to be consistently prying into John's life (or lackthereof), but it's another thing entirely to push too far into the lives of those with previous entanglements. It gets to a point where meddling is unwarranted and even unfair in some respects, so Sherlock has been keeping himself to himself, aside from certain... contraband items, attempting to allow Lestrade respectful distance should it be required. Pointed glances but words never spoken, just looks, nothing more than looks - but then, looks often say more than enough, whenever Sherlock is concerned.
Gabriel's absence had been... noted in several ways on Sherlock's part, but not as noted as the way Lestrade moves stiffly and if Sherlock found himself angry over anything in particular, he kept it to himself.
He has his own problems. His own puzzle pieces to consider, his own incredible fumbled attempts at gesturing vaguely towards assembling a love life with certain people both a hot topic for consternation and regret as he tries to examine where he went wrong (everywhere) and how he might improve in future (stop caring seems to be the best answer to all of this, honestly, but he finds that difficult to implement so the jury's out on that one).
They are both stewing in their losses, although Sherlock is doing it by attempting to clear his mind palace. A war he was going to lose regardless, but an attempt had been made - right up until his phone had pinged and distracted him even further. He glances towards it with a frown, ignoring it for a few minutes more before giving it all up as a bad job. It wasn't working. He'd been distracted, fingers typing out a response before he can stop himself.
John (the cat, not the person: the doctor had been out for hours, presumably working, he does that) had, at some point, managed to flop gracelessly over Sherlock's legs whilst he had been tuning out the world at large. He absently scratches her under the chin as he sends off the message, glancing down towards the floorboards as if he can see Lestrade receiving it.
He can't, obviously, but he has quite the active imagination. ]
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[ He can't really say what spurred that moment of sarcasm, but there it is. Almost is. He didn't try quite as hard to make sure that text came out legibly, and the auto-correct didn't exactly help too much. Greg tosses the phone back onto the table in front of him, very nearly missing it entirely, but it eventually rattles to a stop on the edge, still close enough for him to make a grab for if it rings. He tells himself that he won't bother picking it up for a text, but of course he would. He's never been able to ignore these things.
Did he want Sherlock to come down here, just so he wouldn't be sitting in an empty room with only the sleeping dog for company? Possibly. Despite his current level of inebriation - or maybe because of it, he can almost hear Sherlock lecturing about how alcohol is a depressant and what else should he expect? - his thoughts keep turning to uncomfortable memories he hasn't revisited in years, and back to the most recent ones that are bothering him. If they're both here alone, they might as well be alone together. As funny as it sounds, it makes sense to him.
Maybe Sherlock will just ignore it, though. Lestrade's not going to go upstairs looking for him, or even bother sending him another text. A part of him would accept that, because honestly, he feels like he's in a rather pathetic state overall. Sherlock's already worn far too thin, that much is obvious to anyone who really knows him, and he doesn't want to heap more burdens onto that pile.
Sherlock can say all he likes about not caring, about being utterly selfish and unemotional, but he's not fooling Lestrade. It seems lately that they've just been mutually incapable of doing anything to help each other beyond maintaining a presence, and they both know that. Greg, for one, finds it endlessly frustrating.
What can he do for a genius that's slowly being crushed under the weight of his own mind? There was a time when he could give Sherlock cases. When he needed Sherlock in a very tangible way, because he had no other option, because Sherlock was the only one who was capable. Now it's all too personal, and it's a new dynamic that doesn't seem to work.
But he's still here. Stubbornly.
Princess suddenly yawns and stretches, momentarily distracting his thoughts as he reaches down to scratch behind her ears. ]
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[ Lestrade is, understandably, very drunk. Three quarters of the way through (estimated, yes, but it's the sort of estimation that relies on several factors, both about the man himself and the habits he falls into - a guess, but an informed one, which is slightly better as far as guestimation tends to go). Drowning his sorrows, and realistically, Sherlock can't blame him. If he had the option, he'd be doing the exact same thing: except his choice of poison has been restricted, and his other options seem lacklustre in the droll confines of nighttime. The come down always hits hardest when he's alone and the hours seem to stretch. The thought of taking more is honestly seems harrowing when the high doesn't seem to do what it once did.
He's been trying to come up with options. Trying to find new things to fall into, new habits to cheat his mind out of falling into the static that's always so hellish to escape from once his mind reverts back. It's getting a bit desperate. The drugs were always a short term solution: they could never mask everything completely forever, he knows that, he's always known that. But the relief is too good to pass up, even if it's short lived. Short lived is better than nothing.
Meanwhile, Lestrade is chasing after his work because he's unsatisfied in other areas and there's really nothing Sherlock can do beyond watch from the sidelines and perhaps this is how he feels, as he watches Sherlock repeatedly try and fail to find ways of dealing with the problems that seemingly have no reliable answer in sight. It's sort of hopeless, isn't it?
They're both sort of hopeless and they're both struggling, and aside from remaining within one another's orbit, there's not much that can be done. Sherlock has no emotional wisdom to reach out with, whereas Lestrade has no surefire way to chase the mental ghosts Sherlock has clogging up his afterlife: they're stuck in a feedback loop of stagnant uncertainty, and there's not much that can be done aside from trying to break through it entirely.
To do something different. To try something different. Lestrade has already begun that: set the wheels in motion, in attempting to get Sherlock's attention as opposed to wallowing alone. He may not realise it consciously, but he's vying for change, and Sherlock can see that pattern for what it is: an attempt at socialisation.
So slowly but surely, Sherlock finds his way to his feet. And then he finds his way downstairs, determined to look considerably better than he feels - if only for show. When he happens upon Lestrade, it's more or less exactly as he suspected: except actually, the bottle of scotch is out. It just hasn't been touched (yet). So it was on the menu, then? He does so hate to be wrong. With a freshly lit cigarette hanging from his lips, Sherlock stalks his way towards this sorry state of affairs with a cocked eyebrow and a tilt of the head. ]
At least let me open it before you deny me the pleasure of drinking my brother's incredibly expensive scotch in front of him.
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He's not surprised to hear Sherlock coming down the stairs, or when Princess jumps down from his lap to have a go at getting more attention from a new target, which more or less amounts to hopefully shadowing Sherlock's steps, since she's a bit too tired to bounce much. She's not used to staying up late, and is probably a bit confused by this abrupt change in routine. It's understandable. No one else likes it, either.
Lestrade does attempt to straighten himself into less of a slouch when Sherlock's gaze lands fully on him, inexplicably feeling even more as if he's a terrible sight to look at right now and not feeling very pleased to be made even more aware of it. He'll attempt to shrug it off, regardless, studying Sherlock's face for a long moment before his eyes slide back down to the bottle of scotch in question. ]
I wasn't actually going to drink it.
[ But now he's a bit curious, since if even Sherlock is calling it incredibly expensive, then it's got to be ridiculous. He shrugs his shoulders fractionally and tilts his head slightly toward the couch, which clearly has a reasonable amount of space on it for someone else to sit. ]
Not without you, at least.
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Sherlock hums once, his eyes scanning Lestrade's crumpled form and taking in far too many details to actively fixate on. Too much data, all confirming his suspicions of a man slowly being squashed under the weight of the world lying heavily upon his shoulders. He can relate. His indecision to join Lestrade weighs on him for a moment: alcohol is not his poison, especially when coupled with the very damning fact that he barely ever eats. It'll go straight to his head, and he knows it.
Still, that's what people do, isn't it? Commiserate. The whole point of drinking alcohol is to get drunk, (or, worse still, the point is to escape one's reality and the tedium of one's mind - a noble effort, but alcohol surely can't offer that much solace in that department? It's very disjointed, yes, but still a depressant. There's only one way to go, and it certainly isn't up). He could say all of this. He really could, but pointing out the obvious seems rather disingenuous when he's already here and already stepping his way over the furniture towards his side of the sofa, Princess quick on his heels. His mind had made up the second he'd placed the soles of his feet down onto the carpeted floor upstairs: this is just an extension of that decision. Socialisation is on the cards, even if that means getting through an awkward rendition of being human on Sherlock's part. He reaches out towards his scotch and mercilessly rips it open, casting Lestrade a sideways glance as he ponders the validity of conjuring a glass out of thin air (alas, if only his studies in magical lore had lead him that far), and he finds he doesn't care enough to actually go and get a glass from the kitchen - and so he swigs straight from the bottle, and it's honestly incredibly satisfying and it's not just the alcohol that causes it. A nostalgic wave of devouring books dedicated to pirates and the way they'd drink their rum straight from the bottle by the flickering flames of a makeshift fire. Companionable.
And considerably cooler than the image he portrays now, with his hair a mess and his pyjamas rumpled from the over-exertive amount of fuck all he's done today (or, at least, that's how it would appear: mental mapping is an arduous affair, but it seems relaxing from an outsider's perspective). The ball of fluff (affectionately titled Dog, as Sherlock refuses to call her Princess) has settled in between them after excitedly running from one lap to the next, with the detective offering a quick and lazy ruffle before returning his hand to his lap. ]
I'm certainly not your first choice of companion.
[ Or anyone's, for that matter. ]
no subject
He thinks briefly to the medicine that was left in his bedroom. Of course there was never any shadow of a doubt in his mind as to who left it. He's sure that John would have managed to dig something up, and quite insistently if he had let on that he needed it, but he'd been trying to hide that. Such efforts are fairly pointless around Sherlock, obviously. Even if he's been spending even more time than usual boarded up in his room, he doesn't miss much when he finally does emerge from it.
His expression turns to a frown at Sherlock's statement, and he pauses on his next drink. It's true, broadly speaking, he can't deny that, but it's not really fair to suggest that it's the kind of choice that he made because Sherlock is somehow unworthy of his time or attention. There are plenty of reasons that things are... the way they are. Sherlock knows that, doesn't he? Of course he does. He has to. ]
I'm not yours, either.
[ He downs the rest of that drink after that and immediately busies himself with pouring another. He's not being dramatic, honestly, it's just truth. He accepted that a long time ago.
Still, it's an even more uncomfortably depressing train of thought than the ones that he's already been entertaining, so he decides to move on from it before he can give it too much consideration. He'll gesture vaguely with his glass as he speaks, almost to the point of spilling his drink. ]
I guess I don't need to explain anything to you, do I? You've got this one all figured out already, right?
[ Seeing the liquid sloshing about dangerously in his glass, he decides to drink some of it before he does spill it. ]