it's okay to say you've got a weak spot; you don't always have to be on top

[logicals]

_{[ The most excellent thing about Sherlock. ]}

Time is a manmade construct designed to keep the little cogs turning in their little places. Tick tock, tick tock.
SH

<sub>[ And oh, what a sight it is to behold. A broken down street with rundown alleyways, a pub that's barely standing with shattered windows and peeling paint. Sherlock's beyond the threshold and up the stairs, hidden away in a large room that smells suspiciously like damprot. Sherlock has seen better days, with his back propped up against the base of a moth-eaten couch and his head lulling to the side. He has his phone tucked neatly in his hands, using the bulk of the couch to keep his arm propped up in order to text - but it's obvious that he's been finding it difficult to keep his attention trained on it.

His hair's a mess, his clothes are creased and his scarf is strewn down beside him like a makeshift tourniquet.

He barely responds to the sounds of Mycroft's feet echoing up the stairs and along the landing. But then he moves, eyes still closed, as he mumbles:]</sub>

You're getting slow.

Comments

[nogoldfish]

[ It's not a disaster if he brings someone untrained with him to pick up his high brother. There's no threat in Sherlock, not really. Nothing that makes it worthy of being wary.

It's as good practice for her as anything.

But they'll certainly talk about this later. ]

No coffee for you. You have enough in your system.

[ It wouldn't be dangerous, certainly, but it's also utterly pointless. Except, perhaps, for the sake of making sure Sherlock doesn't fall asleep and Mycroft won't have to somehow carry him into his office.

For now, though, no coffee. ]

[logicals]

Evidently not.

<sub>[ Said with the gentlest of smiles as his eyes skirt off to the side and watch the world scroll past in a haze of concrete grey and colours that flash by too quickly to analyse. He's never felt the weight of the world dissipate quite so fully; there's a strange sense of being weightless within his own head, thoughts drifting away before they've really landed; he could see himself using this again in conjunction to something else, his makeshift little cocktails he can whip up in his home laboratory so long as he has a good source.

But these are thoughts Sherlock knows he should save for another time and place; under his brother's watchful eye, Sherlock is careful to give little away as he twists in his seat, his shoe-clad feet scuffing up fine upholstery as he holds his legs to his chest.

He wants to pout at the prospect of no coffee, but he remembers where he is and who he's with - pouting would hardly have any affect aside from making Mycroft sneer in that overly know-it-all way he sometimes does.

Of course, it's better than the lingering poignant looks that leave Sherlock angry, resentful and disappointed; those looks always cut straight through him, with hot shame prickling its way down his neck and along his spine in eerie waves as he's forced to contemplate his actions.

He pretends it doesn't affect him, but they both know better. ]</sub>

Bored.