The Wall Had It Coming

My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don't know. I am the worlds only consulting detective. I won't delve further into what I do because chances are you wouldn't understand it anyhow. Got a case or a problem you can't solve? Don't hesitate to contact me, and don't be boring.

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

(ooc: WOW what even happened?)

So it’s been a while. A lot’s happened since I’ve last been active on this blog But basically because my domain broke the laws of tumblr and had a dash in front, I was forced to rename it so I could even view my actual blog. So I was once known as -high-functioning-sociopath. If anyone’s still alive, give me a sign. 

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

I realized yesterday was a holiday so like it wasn't super smart to post it at that time. Anyway Im reblogging just in case.

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

(ooc: WOW what even happened?)

So it’s been a while. A lot’s happened since I’ve last been active on this blog But basically because my domain broke the laws of tumblr and had a dash in front, I was forced to rename it so I could even view my actual blog. So I was once known as -high-functioning-sociopath. If anyone’s still alive, give me a sign. 

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Possession

[aslongasonecanthink]

The day had an easy quality to it, lying beside Sherlock in simple company. A number of days there had caused marks of his presence to gather about the flat, items that he’d gotten or had become his scattered in with Sherlock’s things. He nodded in response to Sherlock’s annoyance and stretched out, hoping for the interruption to leave quickly. But he heard the many pairs of feet enter and the raised voices that followed and he heaved a sigh. He got to his feet and shuffled to the door, despite being in nothing but pajama pants, rubbing his spiky hair. He came into view just at that last outburst and he bit his lip. Ah, a drug search. That proved no problem to Holmes. However… oh dear.

He cleared his throat to gather attention, which was really hardly needed as everyone had been a bit caught off guard by the emergence of a shirtless man from Sherlock’s bedroom. 

"I can attest to his innocence, my good fellows, there’s certainly no need for all this fuss." He gestured confidently. 

"And who the hell are you?" Lestrade demanded, looking fairly taken aback. (Quite possibly at the intense… britishness Basil exuded, putting the rest of them to slight shame, adding on to the already bizarre situation.)

"Oh, ehm… I’m Basil. Been a friend to Holmes for some time." He attempted to explain, clearing his throat. "I’ve been staying with him recently, so I can vouch for his claims."

"Oh, can you?" came a voice from elsewhere. "Want to explain this?" One of the officers held up a used syringe with a smug look.

"……Ah." Basil replied with abrupt deflation, looking sheepishly at Sherlock.

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Sherlock only spared Basil a glance before turning back to Lestrade. "Need more proof than someone who's actually willing to vouch for me?" He asks, just before Anderson pulls out the syringe from somewhere among the bookshelves. He changed pace almost immediately then, turning on Basil with a cutting glare. "It's not mine!" he shouts, just as Lestrade puts a hand to his shoulder. 

"Oh aye? Got your little friend here packin' it in for you?" Lestrade asks, and juts his head toward Basil. "I can't let you go for this, Sherlock. Your brother-"

"Is a first rate idiot-" Sherlock buts in.

"Well that first rate idiot could have you locked up in the darkest cell of London and then shipped to bleedin' America if he wanted to. And I ain't 'bout to test that," he says, gesturing one of the officers over to cuff Sherlocks hands. "Don't worry, your mate here's gonna come to. Doin' you a favor," he says, looking between them both. "It's either me or Mycroft."  

Sherlock seethes as the officer starts to cuff him, yanking away quickly to grab at his coat. "Let me at least get properly dressed," he starts, pulling it on.

"Who you trying to impress?" Anderson jeers, and Sherlock snorts angrily, shooting Basil an ugly look just before he's properly cuffed and Lestrade sends a man over to lock up him up as well.

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Seeking Company

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

He’s careful when he stands, making sure his palm is steady so Basil doesn’t get tossed around. He moves through the living room and kitchen, then makes a straight for the door at the end of the hall. His room. He sits on his unmade bed, with assorted clothes and sheets mused up along the big duvet. He sets Basil down on the pillow beside the one his head is on, then settles in himself, staring at the ceiling. “Explain it.” He says, abruptly, then after another beat and a glance toward Basil he furthers, “Explain it like a case. What’s on the outside, what you see, what you don’t know. The facts, then we go deeper.” 

[aslongasonecanthink]

He sat with drooping ears and half-closed eyes on Sherlock’s palm, not seeing the familiar flat go by. He drew in that warmth and comfort, so ingrained into his senses by now, the strange soothingness that came from hands. But it didn’t register to him like it should’ve, like he didn’t know how to let it get past skin deep. He slid off onto the pillow, wrapping his tail around himself as he slumped. 

"A case…" He mumbled. Right, of course… that was what he knew. He knew logic, he knew reason, and he knew life and death - what he didn’t know was these sudden feelings coming along with these things. He took a breath and organized the information in his mind, attempting to calm and collect himself, separate from the raging emotions that rattled him to the core and wouldn’t let him be. What were the facts of the situation?

"About a month or so ago…" He began slowly, settling into a soft, logical tone. "I received a letter explaining the severely ill health of someone I know. This came as a shock to me, as I had received no indication of this prior, especially considering she was so young… due to the circumstances of our lives and locations, we hadn’t been able to see each other for some time. At that point, she was too ill and there was too little time to arrange a visit, merely a small bit of correspondence. I hardly knew what to say, of course… I was entirely bewildered by the nature of the situation." Just a fact, that’s all it was. A simple fact. Of course he was confused and uncertain, it was only natural. 

"A few days ago, I received a letter stating her- …telling me that Olivia… is dead."

He paused, swallowing hard, but re-collecting himself into calm reason. “I found myself bizarrely affected by this news. On the outside, what I can see, is that my thoughts have drifted into a state of surreality, and my behavior matches as such. I am exhibiting signs of depression, guilt, and immense grief. I am thinking irrational thoughts, such as placing fault where there is none, and conjuring idle hopes of reality shifting itself. What I don’t know is how to justify these behaviors in a way that corresponds to my usual personality. My occupation requires exposure to great amounts of death and emotional states, none of which have had a great affect on me.”

His eyes had closed as he explained, finding a strange comfort in detaching, in laying out his scattered emotions one by one in simple, logical form. It felt more like himself - but it also didn’t feel quite right. It was too hollow, too narrow a way of thinking about something that had blotted out reason itself and transformed a man of logic into a man in mourning.

"These are the facts, Holmes." He mumbled in a rough voice. "These are the raw, observable, linguistically-correct facts. I know this, and yet it feels like… like…" He took a breath.

"Like they don’t convey the reality of the situation at all… words like regret and devastation have never sounded so unpoetic and entirely reasonable to me until now.”

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

The hum of the air conditioner sets a grieving mood as it hums over them. Sherlock takes to drumming his fingertips along his own chest as Basil talks, keeping his eyes transfixed on the unchanging ceiling. It's a testament to either how bored he truly is or just what human qualities he might be capable of possessing that he manages to understand enough of what Basil's going through to not glance over at him yet, but let him have the space. 

"Poetry never works anyhow," Sherlock agrees. "Emotion isn't exactly worth writing up. We are born to feel, and feel abhorrent amounts. You've been through a loss, and not knowing the strength of that connection, you've consequently gone into grieving. It's a species wide dilemma that we are mortal and dying, and that the ones we love die as well and we never say or do enough to sate ourselves for when they pass on," he says, rolling his lip in thought. "Funerals are for the living, not the dead. We need closure or we can't go on."

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Possession

Mrs. Hudson’s voice got to him even through the walls of his room. He looked to Basil with irritation for a moment before begrudgingly giving into his landladies plee of coming out and rolling himself out of the bed they were both on. He pulled on a shirt and trousers, then made his way to the door in the living room just before Lestrade managed to work through it with his spare key. An excessive amount of people shuffled through, Anderson in tow, and Mrs. Hudson right behind them all looking as flustered as she could knowing she hadn’t done the dusting before hand. 

"Sherlock, they’ve come to check the-"

"The flat. I can tell," Sherlock interrupts her, and looks around the room at the people currently ransacking his things. "The question, however, is why?" He said, and walked over to someone who had picked up his violin to snatch it from their hands and put it back on it’s stand. "I’ve been clean. There’s no grounds to-"

"There’s enough grounds!" Greg assures him, and intercepts the police officer from Sherlock to let them carry on with their business. "You don’t answer my calls, disappear for days, refuse cases, then you pop up one day like you’ve been charged up an’ you expect me not to get suspicious?" 

"Suspicious is one thing. Stupid is another and- Don’t touch my experiments!" He yells, turning on Anderson as he lifts up a glass container. "Don’t you people know how to do your job properly?"

"Well we do but you’re currently inhibiting-"

"No, you’re currently being idiots!" He shouts, getting up into Greg’s space. "I am NOT on drugs!"

[mistynats]

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Seeking Company

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Sherlock breathes out in thought, watching the mouse with a slow-growing interest. “Then all the more reason to analyze it,” he says, as he offers up his palm to for the other to climb onto.

[aslongasonecanthink]

He remained still for a long moment, then slowly turned to look at the man and the outstretched palm. After another moment he stepped out of the shadowy hole and climbed atop it, sitting down right in the center and folding his paws.

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

He's careful when he stands, making sure his palm is steady so Basil doesn't get tossed around. He moves through the living room and kitchen, then makes a straight for the door at the end of the hall. His room. He sits on his unmade bed, with assorted clothes and sheets mused up along the big duvet. He sets Basil down on the pillow beside the one his head is on, then settles in himself, staring at the ceiling. "Explain it." He says, abruptly, then after another beat and a glance toward Basil he furthers, "Explain it like a case. What's on the outside, what you see, what you don't know. The facts, then we go deeper." 

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

::hides Molly's cat in your closet::

Best hope Basil doesn't decide to be too nosy today.

-SH

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Seeking Company

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Sherlock easily intercepts the small door by sticking his finger in the opening, stopping it in its tracks and pushing it back open. He settles further on the floor then, stomach flattening out against the wood and his arms propping his head up better. He barely blinks, doesn’t urge anything forward, just hums as if in agreement with Basil and asks “So what’s wrong then?” 

[aslongasonecanthink]

Basil halted but didn’t turn around, his shoulders tensing with a sigh and then slumping dejectedly. “Nothing you’d be interested in.” He mumbled, his voice low and weary. His paws went to his pockets, one grasping at the letter still held there. “Nothing I should be interested in…” He added quietly.

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Sherlock breathes out in thought, watching the mouse with a slow-growing interest. "Then all the more reason to analyze it," he says, as he offers up his palm to for the other to climb onto.

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Seeking Company

-high-functioning-sociopath

 said: 

Sherlock kneels down by the small hole in the trimming of the wall, poking open the ‘door’ there until he can peek inside the darkness. He huffs with impatience, then clears his throat. “Basil!” he yells, his deeps voice filling the space and then some. “Basiiiiiiil!” he calls again, with more of a drag for insurance.

______________________

Down through the first floor and then foundations of the flat, Basil slumped in his chair with his violin held idly in his paws, small mournful notes pealing out slowly. The voice traveling down made him stir slightly, only enough to shift and play louder. But the retaliation call made his music screech to a halt and he sighed, setting it down and tugging his robe up his shoulder as he stood. He made his way up and poked his nose out of the hole with squinted eyes. “What is it, Holmes?” He asked glumly, leaning against the frame.

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Sherlock leans forward on his forearms, knees propping his behind off floor and chin rested where his fisted hands meet. “I am seeking your company..” he says simply, though his voice is a bit too sarcastic to make it anything sentimental. “It’s what friends do,” he adds, as if he’s an expert in the field.

[aslongasonecanthink]

"Yes, well, find another friend, Holmes.” Basil sighed in response, not even having the energy to truly put snark into the words. He started to turn away and push the little hole cover closed behind him.

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Sherlock easily intercepts the small door by sticking his finger in the opening, stopping it in its tracks and pushing it back open. He settles further on the floor then, stomach flattening out against the wood and his arms propping his head up better. He barely blinks, doesn't urge anything forward, just hums as if in agreement with Basil and asks "So what's wrong then?" 

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Seeking Company

-high-functioning-sociopath

 said: 

Sherlock kneels down by the small hole in the trimming of the wall, poking open the 'door' there until he can peek inside the darkness. He huffs with impatience, then clears his throat. "Basil!" he yells, his deeps voice filling the space and then some. "Basiiiiiiil!" he calls again, with more of a drag for insurance.

______________________

Down through the first floor and then foundations of the flat, Basil slumped in his chair with his violin held idly in his paws, small mournful notes pealing out slowly. The voice traveling down made him stir slightly, only enough to shift and play louder. But the retaliation call made his music screech to a halt and he sighed, setting it down and tugging his robe up his shoulder as he stood. He made his way up and poked his nose out of the hole with squinted eyes. “What is it, Holmes?” He asked glumly, leaning against the frame.

Sherlock leans forward on his forearms, knees propping his behind off floor and chin rested where his fisted hands meet. "I am seeking your company.." he says simply, though his voice is a bit too sarcastic to make it anything sentimental. "It's what friends do," he adds, as if he's an expert in the field.

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Basil lay across the couch as he had been for some time, his pipe in his mouth and smoke curling lazily from it. He had made himself comfortable in the flat, awaiting notice by it's inhabitants.

The flat door squeaks against it's own weight when it opens, and the first thing that hits Sherlock's nose is the smell of fresh tobacco smoke leaking through the door to his living room. Mrs. Hudson stops as she walks by, starting off with greetings and 'Oh Sherlock you should get some good tea in you-' before he interrupts her, tossing his suit jacket into her laundry basket she's holding and kissing her cheek before he dashes up stairs. She calls after him, but by the time he's opened the door -entering nose first- and shuts it behind him, he's thrilled into the realization of who's sprawled across his sofa, with thick smoke pooling between their lips. 

"Don't suppose you ever learned not to smoke indoors?" is the first thing he says, a smile pressing playfully into his lips. 

[sciencefictiongallery]

Tom Kidd - Sherlock Holmes Through Time and Space, 1984.

[dramatisecho]

quoth the raven…

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

do you believe in aliens, Sherlock?

I don’t not believe. I just choose not to care. 

-SH

[occupyaminorposition]

It Keeps Him Occupied ll DarkMycroft

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

"Not all of his limits," Sherlock admits, attempting -though failing- to refuse is brother all the good parts of this conversation. He sat up however, pushing himself to his feet and walking over to the desk to toy with a pair of scissors while Mycroft attempts to throw him a bone.

"Gangs. Not entirely my thing. I’m sure you’re aware," Sherlock quips, twirling the handle of the scissors between his fingers. "Terrorism, small circuits, finding the actual hideout, yes. But as you already have some idea to the activity of this ‘gang’ and the whereabouts then there’s not much for me to truly play with is there?" 

[occupyaminorposition]

Mycroft makes a small noise, a hum of amusement before he speaks, “Just because the surveillance has increased does not mean I know what they’re doing. I’m aware there’s shipments of something being handled. But that, brother, is foot work I’m in no mood to engage in.” 

"Now, still interested or should I present you with something else and have John deal with this gang? I do believe I have something for you, such as this evidence of a sex trafficking ring taking place in lower London." He purrs, his eyes going narrow as his stares at the screen in front of him. 

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Sherlock settles into a type of silence that is made of brooding irritation for his brother, a kind of childish pity party that made him set his lip too far out. "I'll need the files. Video surveillance. I'm sure you'll already be wiring me the address of the warehouse. Though it's not likely I am allowed to go alone," he says more than he asks, tossing his own weight off the couch and into a stand. He starts up his laptop when he crosses over to the coffee table, shoving the mobile between his ear and shoulder.

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Rehab And Relapse | Sherlock And Mycroft

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

Sherlock wipes his palm off on the side of his pant leg without too much indiscretion. There’s a sort of drama to this now that he’s getting attached to and he falls back into the old chair behind him with such little grace it’s a wonder he doesn’t fold entirely in half. He eyes Mycroft, watching the hesitation, watching his slow-forming regret and smiles. “We’ll see..” he says, and then draws his fingers into a point with each other with practiced ease.

[occupyaminorposition]

"Sherlock."

And Mycroft’s tone is warning and low, his eyes flashing his displeasure as he takes a slow step toward him. “Do not take this lightly. If you are so displeased with it then I will gladly have you locked up here till the end of your days. Mark my word.” He states coolly, grip around the handle of his umbrella tight, his knuckles going pale from the force of his grip.

[thehigh-functioning-sociopath]

"Oh, shutup," Sherlock bursts out childishly, his voice dragging out the words with a dramatic slump of his head against the back of the chair. "I am well aware of your power to entirely ruin my life, brother. I am here after all," he bites back. "And you have a way of reminding me every moment you can," he adds, with an obvious roll of his eyes. "Me and the therapist have a running bet going on how many times you attempt to use mother's disappointment to try and set me straight."