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it's okay to say you've got a weak spot; you don't always have to be on top
[ 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
[ 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:]
You're getting slow.
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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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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[ 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? ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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.
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[ 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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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.