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

_{[ If only Sherlock was capable of managing his mind the way Mycroft so clearly is. If only Sherlock could compartmentalise everything to the minutest detail, because anything would be easier than listening to that static silence or the frenzied onslaught of thoughts. Surely there's a middle ground somewhere? It's getting difficult to constantly be within the grips of hysteria; he has to find something he can sink his teeth into and run with.

There's something dancing just beyond his vision, a gentle pulsing of colours and shapes that he promptly ignores. The hallucinations are only going to get that much stronger, he might as well buckle in. ]}

It's not...

_{[ what? Intentional? He doesn't mean to worry Mycroft, but at the same time, he can't help it. He just hates being inside his own head, and there's not much he can do beyond alter his mental faculties into something more manageable. And even then, it doesn't really seem to be working. Yes, the ketamine has allowed him to feel relaxed, but it's not a mental relaxation, it's a body one, which isn't really what he's looking for. Still, it's euphoric and it feels pleasant enough - like his whole body's padded with cotton wool. It's almost dissociative, his mind clear and his body numb.

He doesn't try to finish his initial sentence, he wasn't sure where he was going with it anyway. It's not important.

He clicks his tongue impatiently as Mycroft grabs his arm and pulls him into a standing position. He sways for a moment, but then he forcibly straightens himself using Mycroft as a crutch. ]}

I do wish you'd actually consider why I do it in the first place.

_{[ Because it's not about whether Mycroft enjoys it or not, it's about Sherlock and his inability to cope with his own head. And that's more important than his brother's inability to enjoy himself - or at least, in Sherlock's mind it is. ]}

Edited 2016-01-25 00:34 (UTC)

I am well aware.

[ Of course he is. He may not know it intimately, the chaos inside Sherlock's head, but he's well aware of its existence. Sherlock's greatest weakness. Mycroft doesn't need to go to any considerable effort to keep track of the information that continuously trickles into his mind. It's effortless, to put each report from his people where it fits, to date, to define, to compartmentalise ...

He's the lucky one of the two of them. And good thing, too, because then he can at least look after Sherlock. Had he, god forbid, been born with a normal brain, with normal intellect, Sherlock would certainly be dead by now. None of the people he chooses to spend time with are capable of saving his life.

Mycroft keeps a hand on Sherlock's opposite shoulder, so there's some support at his back too, and makes for the stairs. ]

You could at least let me know when it gets unbearable. Must you make it so difficult to help you?

_{[ The fact of the matter is that Sherlock's broken, and has been for a long time. There's really no way to escape the metaphorical demons inside his head - but there's a way to press pause, and this is the only thing that's ever actually helped.

It's fine for Mycroft - he found a coping system early enough that it quickly became second nature, but Sherlock's own coping mechanism wasn't defined, still isn't defined - it's haphazard and disordered and it's impossible to fix because there's just so much.

It gets lonely, trapped inside your head.

But for the first time in a while he can think through the static, he can actively push past those mental blocks that have held him in place for what feels like far too long. It's not as clear as it could be - ketamine doesn't offer the same reprieve as certain other narcotics, but it's fine, it's something he can work with. A starting point.

Sherlock tightens his grip around Mycroft's neck slightly, just enough to pull himself up before he pushes away, a hand braced against the wall to catch the inevitable slip. Even now, he's determined to prove just how capable he is, to prove how he doesn't need Mycroft to hold him up - he forces himself forward, a ministep behind his brother (because he's stubborn but he's not an idiot; if he falls, Mycroft will catch him) . ]}

I can barely let myself know.

_{[ Because it's always sudden, the impulse - it just hits him and he has to deal with it, he has to do damage control before his mind rips itself to pieces; he doesn't have the luxury of knowing when the worst stages are going to hit. It just... happens.

He can hear people downstairs, riots and music and laughter, and he knows that's wrong because they're in an abandoned, run-down pub.

There are no people here. ]}

Auditory hallucinations. Not even fun ones. Ketamine is useless. Needs... more of something.

_{[ It's hard to tell whether he said that out loud or not. He hopes not.

Stairs are difficult to navigate alone, but dammit he's going to try anyway. ]}

Your cologne is awful, by the way. Gets stuck in the back of the throat.

[ Oh, all right, then. Sherlock can be stubborn about it. Even if Mycroft will tell him off if it makes him fall. Rather than just catch him he could simply support him and it would save them both the trouble.

Unfortunately, Sherlock is both stubborn and an idiot.

And he does say it out loud, but Mycroft gives no indication he heard. It doesn't matter, because there won't be more of anything. It is very helpful of Sherlock to let him know that the hallucinations are starting, however. As they were bound to. ]

Are you certain that's not the mold? I'm shocked you're still breathing.

[ Carefully now, brother dear. He'd rather not have to catch you on the stairs. ]

_{[ The stubborn idiot may or may not be swaying on the first step. But it's ok, because he's being very careful and very slow. Actually, maybe he's being too slow. The first he takes feels like quite the triumph, his hands both braced against the banister to ensure his safety. It takes him a couple of botched up footfalls to get the movement right (and for the stairs themselves to stop moving, which is really very disorienting), but once he's figured out the momentum, he's fine. It takes him no time at all, in fact!

Except moving from the stairs will probably prove harder still, because life doesn't have banisters.

He really feels as though life should have bannisters. ]}

No, it's definitely your cologne. The mold is practically pleasant in contrast.

_{[ Sherlock squints towards the door - he can hear a familiar sort of shuffling, a click clack click clack against the tiled floor (even though the floor isn't tiled, no, this is another hallucination). As soon as he realises what it is, he tries to disengage from it, eyes travelling up to where Mycroft is as he follows close behind.

With a wry smile: ]}

I think we're both shocked I'm still breathing.

You might be, but I'm not.

[ Hello. It's largely thanks to his own efforts, if they're talking the big picture now. Sherlock's general state of being alive is nothing worthy of shock. Mycroft has done a careful job of building up a network that will help him monitor and follow Sherlock wherever he goes, and this time, too, was only a matter of time before it called for his full attention ...

He really ought to have a word with whoever failed to let him know before Sherlock accidentally texted him to alert him of the circumstances, however. It is quite rare that they manage to let him know as quickly as he'd like, and he has yet to work out a way to make that happen. Sometimes he's almost too late, sometimes he doesn't learn until after the fact and the drugs are on their way out of Sherlock's system.

They're all very lucky that their tardiness has yet to cause Sherlock's death.

He reaches for the door handle with a quick glance over his shoulder at Sherlock. Hm. He's doing pretty well. Probably thanks to the stubbornness. At least it's good for something.

The door is open, brother dear. Nice and easy. ]

_{[ It doesn't help that Sherlock reactively avoids any and all tells that someone might be following him - it's easy to slip away unnoticed, even if the CCTV's always watching. He doesn't appreciate being stalked, even if it's for his own good.

The only true way Mycroft could arrive at the scene any quicker would be by giving Sherlock the drugs directly, and even then, that probably wouldn't work. Mostly because Sherlock would refuse to take it, but that's hardly the point.

Moving is fine, once he relearns the motions. His limbs are incredibly heavy, though, which is why it takes him as long as it does to get to the door, which he eyes warily.

Something is behind that door. He knows that something's behind that door because he's heard it scratching and whimpering and he's been doing everything within his power not to notice it, pointedly trying to block the sound out and failing oh so miserably because he'd know that sound anywhere.

He's not ready for the heartbreak behind that door, and he knows it's coming. ]}

No, I suppose you've made it your business to be alerted the second I stop breathing.

_{[ His voice cracks as he watches the dog bound in, tail wagging, and it's all Sherlock can do to stop himself from reaching out, because the dog isn't there, the dog isn't there and he has to keep reminding himself of that because it hurt too much to let go of Redbeard the first time.

He's trying his best not to look, trying his best to ignore it. Mycroft doesn't need to know. He clenches his jaw and forces himself to look away, forces himself to keep moving forwards, out the door and into what he assumes should be a cold night (but he can't feel it, he's too preoccupied). ]}

Where are you taking me today? Let's avoid the rehab if we can.

_{[ Looking anywhere but at the floor, even though he's following each and every movement Redbeard makes through his peripheral vision. He's currently chewing a squeaky toy parrot. ]}

[ Nothing escapes Mycroft's notice, not when Sherlock is right here in front of him. The crack in his voice, the tensening of his jaw, the way he very pointedly avoids to look at something and yet still does ... Something that hurts him, something he can't just ignore, but something that his intellectual mind knows for absolute certain isn't real.

Mycroft has only ever seen him so genuinely hurt over one thing.

The dog.

Almost as though the drug is trying to make him mentally relax too. Only it does quite the opposite, seeing as that loss is still something of an open wound. And how long has it been?

Mycroft doesn't keep walking as he closes the door behind him, and instead speaks. ]

Sherlock, look at me.

[ He could come with some pointless remark about how the dog isn't real, that it died many years ago, but they both know that. ]

_{[ Mycroft is too in touch with reality - he notices the things Sherlock can't control, the little tells that he'd usually hide are far too obvious and he can't force them away. It's obvious, it has to be - he does his best to cover it up, but there's no covering up the look of genuine hurt, because Redbeard had been taken away from him far too young.

He was a good dog. He was.

He just... had a setback.

Sherlock allows him a brief moment to look at Redbeard before he steers his attention towards Mycroft. ]}

Don't.

_{[ Because he doesn't want to talk about Redbeard, despite what his hallucinations might be telling him.

He hates that he automatically taps his thigh in order to call Redbeard closer, hates that he didn't catch it before he'd committed to the action. ]}

[ Good thing for Sherlock that Mycroft has no intention of talking about Redbeard. His gaze flickers down to the tap of the thigh, but only for a brief moment before he looks back up at Sherlock. And he takes one smooth step to the side, tapping the knuckle of his index finger against it. ]

You're not focusing your mind, Sherlock.

Tell me about this door. Material, age, wear and tear. What does it tell you?

_{[ Mycroft stands on Redbeard's paw and he lets out the most pathetic little whine Sherlock's ever heard, but he ignores it. It's not real, obviously.

He does as he's asked, eyes snapping down towards the door. [}

Forty... two years old, could definitely do with a lick of paint. Definitely not oak, judging by the amount of scrapes and dents; probably pine, then. The inhabitants to this particular pub enjoyed getting rowdy more often than not.

_{[ Just look at the scruff marks all over the bottom of it - people repeatedly trying to kick the door down and make their way inside. It's looking a little worse for wear these days. ]}

The landlord's clearly into something nefarious.

_{[ Hardly surprising that people are trying to scratch their way in through the door, then. But he supposes that's cheating, as he actually knows the landlord's a drug dealer.

His drug dealer. Or at least, one of many. ]}

... What have I missed?

The lock's been changed. Quite recently too. What do you think? Did he change it because he thought it would keep him safe, or was it damaged?

[ There are cracks in the door, barely visible behind the lock. Someone probably shot it. It certainly wouldn't be strange, considering the landlord is a drug dealer. A few bullets here and there are just par for the course, isn't it? ]

The lock.

_{[ He tsks himself - it's such an obvious, rookie mistake and he's mad at himself for overlooking it. Still, this gives him something else to focus on, and it's definitely making the hallucinations easier to deal with - Redbeard has since disappeared from sight, although he does keep making little sounds here and there - but it's more manageable.

He squints down towards the lock and tilts his head aside, studying. ]}

Damaged, definitely. Looks as though the keyhole's been shot straight through with a 9 calibre weapon. Clearly someone hasn't been paying his loan sharks.

[ Quite the rookie mistake, but Mycroft gives him the slip because he drugged himself with 130mg of ketamine. Not entirely surprising. Drugs might sometimes help him focus in some ways, but other ways ... not so much. ]

Clearly.

Now that we've established reality, perhaps we can get to the car.

Fine.

_{[ Because Sherlock can't exactly do anything else. The car's close enough, but there are no walls.

First, no bannisters, and now this? He looks pointedly at Mycroft and grits his teeth before slinking his arm around his shoulder.

He's not stupid enough to make that walk without any support, even if Mycroft has to be the support. ]}

Age before beauty.

[ Are they stooping to the level of calling each other ugly now? Not that Sherlock wasn't at that level already, with how he insists on using fat as an insult.

Mycroft rolls his eyes, as he starts walking. ]

At this rate you'll die before anyone can say you don't possess beauty.

_{[ Sherlock is definitely stooping, yes. The quips aren't quite as free flowing as they once were and they definitely aren't the most intelligent of insults, but insults are insults. Their relationship is full of insults, and it'd be amiss if he didn't attempt to throw something in there.

Just keeping up appearances, really. ]}

I'd like to have an open casket so that everyone can be devastated over how attractive I am, even in death.

_{[ Yes, he's thought this through. Except not really, he's more preoccupied by the how over the funeral arrangements. Who cares what happens after he's gone? He's gone.

The car is thankfully closer than it initially appeared. Sherlock all but launches for the door, and with some minor difficulties (read: Sherlock's coordination is considerably lacking), he manages to collapse face-first into the back seat.

Just as planned. Full of grace and charm. ]}

... Don't say anything.

_{[ Slightly muffled by the fact that Sherlock is currently eating a face full of leather. ]}

Edited 2016-01-26 13:57 (UTC)

I promise your funeral will be as dramatic as the rest of you.

[ Mycroft has never quite understood the need to plan a fancy funeral, but it's not like he'd have to go to great lengths. Of course ... he'll also not fulfill any wishes that Sherlock doesn't actually mean whole heartedly.

Neither of them really care about something like funerals.

He lets Sherlock practically fall against the car with a slight expression of contempt, and stands back and waits.

What a graceful creature. ]

I won't if you sit up.

[ He's joining you in the backseat, ok. ]

Mm, good.

_{[ Sherlock doesn't really care how his funeral goes, but it really should be spectacular. Perhaps not as spectacular as his inevitable ridiculous death, but certainly epic enough to live up to the legacy he hopes to have left behind.

So far his legacy is more of a short story littered with drugs and questionable people, but there are other chapters.

He hopes there will be other chapters.

Mycroft and his contemptuous look is decidedly ignored in favour of Sherlock obnoxiously taking up the entire backseat with his impossibly long limbs. He is... actually quite comfortable.

But with Mycroft talking comes another set of instructions, so Sherlock responds by huffing an incredibly forceful huff (much like a teenager might after being told to wake up) and he pulls himself up and into the backseat properly, although he still doesn't do his belt up.

He also pushes his back squarely against the seatbelt and waits for Mycroft to get in before propping both of his legs up in his lap.

Because if he's going to be here, in this ridiculously big car, he's going to take up the entire backseat and Mycroft's just going to have to deal with it. ]}

Music.

_{[ Anything to drown out this long, annoying car ride. ]}

Please.

_{[ Oh so sarcastic. Why so rude, Sherlock? ]}

[ Mycroft lifts his hands as though they've been burned as he looks down at those feet with a scowl. Honestly.

He tuts quietly as he closes the door, and the car starts rolling. ]

Must you always behave like a child?

[ It makes it very hard to not do so himself.

"Any requests, sir?" the woman from the driver's seat asks, seemingly unperturbed by the whole situation, as always. ]

Do try not to indulge him.

[ She bows her head a little, and puts on the radio. ]

_{[ But they both know Mycroft has dealt with oh so much worse than Sherlock's feet in Mycroft's lap; Mycroft should really consider himself lucky. ]}

Must you always behave like a child?

_{[ And with that sarcastic repetition, we see that yes, Sherlock must always behave like a child.

Sherlock pushes himself up onto his elbow to peer at the driver. She's new. ]}

Where did you find this one?

_{[ And more importantly, what happened to the other one? He liked her. She always found him amusing.

... On second thought, that's probably why Mycroft fired her. Shame. ]}

Put Kerrang on.

_{[ Not because Sherlock wants to listen to it, but because Mycroft most certainly won't want to listen to it. And he lives to be contrary. ]}

[ "I am under specific orders not to do that, sir."

Mycroft sends Sherlock a smile that is far too self-righteous. Like there's anything in a petty squabble like this to be proud about. ]

Don't ask questions and expect me to provide you with answers. Give your brain a workout once in a while. See if you can deduce anything about her.

[ Of course, his employees are more difficult than most to deduce anything from, but maybe it'll distract Sherlock for a while. ]

Edited 2016-01-26 16:59 (UTC)

_{[ Sherlock scrunches his nose up in annoyance. Of course Mycroft had to go and ruin his fun by actively putting Kerrang onto the no fly list.

When Mycroft points his overly smug smile towards Sherlock, Sherlock does what any younger sibling would in his situation" he kicks Mycroft's knee and sulks, even going so far as to fold his arms over his chest. Utterly defiant, even if they do have to listen to BBC Radio Four.

Which, by the way, is terrible. It doesn't even play music.

This is exactly the opposite of what he wanted. ]}

I wanted music, not a ridiculous radio comedy about an inept cabin crew.

_{[ And it can't hold his attention, not even slightly, so he moves in such a way to allow him access to the window button, which he presses repeatedly.

Up, down. Up, down. Up, down, up, up, down... Up. Down. With a long, suffering sigh, Sherlock half pushes himself up to get another glimpse of the driver. He's clearly tempted to show off his deduction skills, but then he frowns and shakes his head. ]}

No, you're trying to sober me up. Rude.

[ What a child. Does he really have to behave like this? And the worst part of it is it's not even guaranteed being sober would make a difference. It probably wouldn't. ]

I wonder why.

Theia, the window.

[ Theia clicks a button on the controls between the front seats.

No more window fun for you, Sherlock. Do some deduction instead. ]

_{[ His sobriety definitely wouldn't make a difference. Whenever he and Mycroft are alone, they tend to revert back to their more childish selves, which suits Sherlock just fine.

Or perhaps Mycroft reverts, whereas Sherlock simply remains the same. That seems more accurate.

Oh, hello, Theia. Cue his most charming smile. ]}

Theia. I'd complement the name, but we both know it's not your real name. Whatever he pays you, I'll pay you double to work for me.

_{[ Because stealing Mycroft's people out from underneath him has always been a fun pastime of his.

Look who is pointedly not deducing anything. Sobriety is overrated. ]}

[ Most definitely more accurate. ]

Oh, really? With what money? And what would she do for you, exactly? Arrange your drug deals?

[ "I'm listening," Theia says, so smooth it's almost blank. ]

Yes really. I have money.

_{[ More importantly, he has Mycroft's money. And that's all he needs. ]}

Hardly, I wouldn't let her run before she could crawl.

_{[ Obviously. God, Mycroft, you're so embarrassing. ]}

She could accompany me on cases acting as a springboard.

_{[ ... That is a brilliant idea, this has to happen. He really needs someone to bounce ideas off of. This could absolutely work. ]} And perhaps run a few errands here and there. Nothing too unsavoury.

Some, certainly, but none of mine counts as yours.

[ Obviously.

"Cases?" Theia asks. "As in criminal cases? Don't you need to be trained for that?"

Mycroft isn't sure how long he should allow these two to keep talking ... Of course, it wouldn't necessarily be a loss for him if she were to quit and go follow Sherlock around, because he can just find someone else, but this is ridiculous.

...

Or, actually, maybe not a bad idea. ]

This credit card begs to differ.

_{[ Just one of the many Sherlock's swiped. He has quite a back catalogue by now. ]}

Not when you're with me.

_{[ Because no amount of training could ever really teach someone what Sherlock does - it's built up over years and years of long standing deduction games between brothers. Mycroft really shaped Sherlock into what he is today, except it didn't work quite as flawlessly as Mycroft had probably hoped. ]}

Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective. Also known as the fun brother.

_{[ Pointed look towards Mycroft. So unfun. So unfun. ]}

[ His face is so flat. The flattest. ]

I think you'll find that paying her with my money will prove to be a little more difficult.

[ Also, he doesn't care about being fun. Your look does nothing.

"I don't think it reflects very well on the world's only consulting detective that he drugs himself out of his mind." ]

Which is exactly what I'm always trying to tell him.

[ Isn't she being a bit too ... chatty and cheerful now, though? Must he find chauffeurs that seem to like Sherlock? Maybe he should just tell her to take his brother up on the offer and report back to him ...

Until she gets tired of the man, at least. Surely she couldn't take being his employee for too long. ]

_{[ Correction: his face is so fat. The fattest. ]}

Well, there's always the trustfund.

_{[ It's such a hard life, having rich parents.

Oh, Theia. You've gone down in his estimations. :( ]}

If I had a case, I wouldn't need the drugs. Obviously.

_{[ But getting a case is hard work when Scotland Yard are too wary to give him the meatier cases. The cases Sherlock actually wants to work.

He just needs to find someone willing to toe the line at their job just enough to trust Sherlock's investigative prowess. Because he's a genius, dammit, and he sees the things Scotland Yard are too careless to notice.

Sherlock doesn't even want credit for solving half of the crimes, he just needs to do something.

Oh, but there's talk of a new Detective Inspector rising up the ranks. Maybe Sherlock can flatter his way into his good books? Or better yet, maybe he can berrate his way into them. That'd be better. ]}

Excuse me, I'm having a very important discussion with a potential employee.

_{[ How rude to interrupt, Mycroft.

Sherlock is full of a certain charm that Mycroft lacks - or at least, he has a certain something. Charm is probably too strong a word. It could be the manic, chaotic way in which he runs his life, or perhaps it's just that he is the better brother. They may never know.

Of course, it's also entirely possible that Mycroft overworks his staff, which is why they see Sherlock's wildcard appearances as a good distraction away from the daily grind Mycroft forces upon them. It probably doesn't help that Sherlock keeps trying to charm every single personal assistant Mycroft's ever had away, but that's just some friendly brotherly rivalry. After all, it's hardly Sherlock's fault that Mycroft's employees seem to be overly fond of him. He is quite exceptional, and he definitely got the better sense of humour out of the two of them.

His appearance is probably the highlight of their working month.

In short, they get tired of Mycroft's shit (because who wouldn't?), and Sherlock gets to swan in and take advantage of the situation. Just how many employees has Mycroft lost due to stress, due to simple overworking? Too many to count, surely.

Maybe they should try ketamine. It's very relaxing. A bit too relaxing, actually, but he'll remember that for next time.

Thiea really could be useful, though. She's already vetted to work for the British government, which means she's not above breaking the law for 'the greater good', she'll be capable of keeping up with Sherlock because she's already had to keep up with Mycroft - really, it's a fool proof plan.

Except if Sherlock discovered that Mycroft was actually warming up to the idea, he'd be opposed it immediately. Just for spite's sake. ]}

Not to mention my hours are considerably better.

Edited 2016-01-27 18:39 (UTC)

[ When Mycroft thinks about it, this might actually be a good arrangement. Theia could spend her time running around with Sherlock with his apparently amazing pay, like most of that doesn't come from Mycroft's wallet, and Mycroft will just ... pay her extra. She could keep an eye on him in a better way than having an extensive web of connections does. That is, provided she doesn't betray him.

The issue is he hasn't quite worked out her level of loyalty. ]

A potential employee who I am currently employing. Have you still not grown past trying to take what isn't yours?

[ "Hmm," Theia hums. "I have the two greatest geniuses in London fighting over me. If my grandma could see this ..."

Really, she's still so untrained too. Still, that might be all right.

He'll have to negotiate with her later. ]

I never did get the hang of sharing.

_{[ He sighs as he flops back into his seat; his inability to control just how heavy his body feels is bordering on irritating by this point, although the way his head is pleasantly humming drowns out the somewhat uncomfortable feeling of being slightly out of sorts.

He is very tired. He had hoped to avoid the anaesthetic properties with the dose he chose but he clearly miscalculated because not only is he finding it reasonably difficult to stay awake, he's even having trouble keeping his eyes open (despite the very interesting conversation happening around him).

Sherlock wills himself to stay awake, the back of his hand rubbing at his eyes to try and encourage wakefulness. ]}

Oh, so very forthcoming with your emotional attachments. You're very new, practically untainted by the vigorous training in disassociation.

_{[ The tone of his voice suggests that that's actually rather precious. What have you been doing, Mycroft? Beyond neglecting the emotional needs of your newest staff members, that is.

Sherlock is trying so very hard to keep his words from slurring, but 'disassociation' received the brunt of it regardless. It's very difficult to place his mouth around words that are long and unrelenting; his tongue is not especially cooperative and he feels so dense, both physically and mentally.

He has now given up on trying to keep his head up. He's not sure why he was resisting so thoroughly, the seat's very comfortable.

Actually, maybe that was why he was resisting. Whoops. ]}

Coffee?

_{[ Which should probably be prefaced with the words 'do you have any', but the less words he uses the better.

Coffee or cocaine, actually. Either one will do. ]}

[ 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. ]

Evidently not.

_{[ 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. ]}

Bored.

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject