The Proper Application: A Holmes RP (SevenxGeekotron)

[sevenpercentsolution]

Seventeen steps, the third of which had a loose nail that wobbled and the thirteenth of which had a bannister rung that rattled, the footsteps were painfully slow so one might percieve that the individual was either senior or hindered, but the normally creaking fifteenth step was avoided entirely, indicating that they knew the step would make noise and had thus taken pains to avoid it.

Someone was intimately familiar with the staircase and they were also trying to be terribly, terribly quiet coming up them; the footfalls settled somewhere outside his door.

Holmes fell listlessly back against the settee because he would have simply walked in without flourish and certainly wouldn't press his ear to the door the way that Mrs. Hudson was doing - besides, he could see the darkness where her feet blocked the light between the door and the floorboard.

He slung a long arm over his eyes in an attempt to block out his thoughts; his face twinged where the cloth of his smoking robe touched his face, a sharp reminder of the previous day's boxing match.

It had been four months since Blackwood had made his merry exit via the unfinished bascule of the Tower Bridge, four months since Ms. Adler had taken leave of London, and four months since John Watson had moved out of Baker street.

Holmes had made attempts to occupy himself with cases at first, but he had discovered that all England's streets had to offer him were a few missing satchels and runaway pups - there was nothing interesting. Nothing new. It was all so dreadfully dull. Gladstone seemed to agree, because he hadn't got up off his side all day - Sherlock might have been concerned that he had overdone the witch hazel, but the bullpup's snoring assured him that his measurements were as accurate as ever.

He plucked out a miserable little tune on his violin - which had been settled somewhere above his head - before dropping his arm back down. His mind buzzed, it positively ached but there was nothing on which to expend the energy, nothing to stop himself from hearing the rattling carriage on the street outside his window and knowing it was laden with trunks on the roof, nothing to stop him from rising from the settee and looking out the window and hating the world because it was so bland.

Nothing to stop him from going to the mantle and pushing aside a few reference books to pick up the little green glass bottle that he kept for just such occasions, and certainly nothing to stop him from pushing up his sleeve.

It took some careful placement not to puncture a location that had been used recently - a man outside in the streets was talking, his voice wavered because he was lying and the woman across from him laughed but it was as false as the jewels she wore - and he jammed the syringe home.

And then the world was bright again.

 

[geekotron]

Four months had not been long enough. He had only just moved in with Mary and then her illness started to show. Each day she grew paler, thinner, weaker. Pneumonia had gripped most of London and even being a doctor provided no help. Her case was far too severe for any chance of recovery. All he could do was keep her comfortable until she passed.

Her death had upset him, but as the solider he was, Watson hardly showed it. His days went on normally, though he continued them in black out of respect of the dead. Cards, flowers, freshly baked meat pies were sent to his home - their home - daily until he refused to answer the door. He had no time to mourn her death. He wanted none. She was gone and there was nothing he could do but move on.

And move back.

With a bag of his clothes, he found himself at 221B Baker Street once more. He had discussed the living arrangements with Mrs. Hudson earlier in the week when he was sure Holmes was out. As much as he hated running back to the man, he felt compelled to do so. Though Holmes would hardly provide the conventional comfort, he would give Watson the companionship that he needed.

He moved through the building for the first time in four months with caution. Would Holmes welcome him back? Or mock him? No, he wasn't that childish.

The small suitcase was set by the door as he rapped his walking stick against the wood. Never waiting for an answer, he opened the door to Holmes's room and found the man on his bed, needle in his arm. "At it again," he sighed, limping to the bedside. "What am I going to do with you?"

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

The A sharps came in hues of gold and amber while the D flats were violet and they wavered in front of him, the colours of music rippling like a pond in his vision with every scrape of the bow against the strings - no songs were played, it was simply a varying whine as he shifted the cat gut from note to note, inspecting each of them and the complex shades they created.

Morphine had done its job for a time, but it had made him sluggish - it had hindered him. Opium was decent in a pinch, should there be little else available during one of his darker moments - but cocaine, it seemed, was the ideal. A four percent tincture had been agreeable at first, but it had become less effective weeks ago; no good. The green bottle was his newest mixture - one of the few he wouldn't ply Gladstone with - and as he had discovered that day, a seven percent solution was precisely what he needed.

It was just enough to occupy him.

Just enough to keep the boredom and the weariness from seeping back into his bones on the days he couldn't shake it off - of which there seemed to be an increasing amount, but no matter. At the very least, the effects of the cocaine could be passed off as simply being a few more of Holmes' eccentricities - which could also explain why Holmes could not be seen anywhere in the completely darkened room.

"Would you be so kind," Sherlock said airily, voice coming from somewhere in the shadows, nearer to the centre of the room, "As to hand me a copy of the London Times, from the chemical table, Watson? Any issue will do, the matter is of no use to me though it seems Mrs. Hudson has decided that I need a copy on a regular basis."