ғᴏᴜʀ

[confidente]

( the flat of COOL, DUN DUN DUUUUN )

[ Breakfast. Most important meal of the day and all that. John's sitting at the table in the sitting room with a piece of toast and what could probably pass as the morning paper (or the closet equivalent he could find in this place). Interesting stuff. Well, not exactly, but that isn't the point. ]

Did you get it back yet? [ Sherlock is around. He's pretty sure he is. Somewhere. So he just calls out as he reads up about some sort of town drama, hoping the detective hears. ] The housecoat, I mean.
----



[ A few hours later John slips into the clinic, journal in hand. Slow day, he hopes, wouldn't like to see anyone come in after having jumped off a building and slipped, breaking their ankle or something like that.

He sets himself up nearby the front door, flicking briefly through the journal. Hm. ]

The castle doesn't do that sort of thing all of the time does it? Locking people in rooms with tacky decorations? [ It was such a lovely reminder of how painfully single he is right now. :| ]


(ooc; LALA open for journal and in person shenanigans.)

Comments

[workaphilic]

[He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a thin moleskine journal. The toaster goes off again just as he hands it over, and he embraces the distraction, plucking the bread out and sweeping towards the fridge for butter.

The notebook is just over three-quarters of the way full of notes in his scratchy shorthand, observations that the castle allows him to record outside of a private filter. Early on: a few different profiles of Moriarty based on information gleaned during their Game, notes on John and Sherlock himself, observations about the pool, location, and atmosphere. There are notes on the properties of Semtex. One page is entirely a list of psychological constructs. Interspersed are what look to be page numbers, circled in heavy pen -- probably reference marks to wherever he put his more in-depth theories.

Then it turns into math equations, physics by the looks of it. The vast majority have to do with explosives and blast radii, but some deal with the velocity of a bullet fired from a gun with the specs of John's pistol, or the force required to obliterate the structural integrity of a building like the one they were in.

Then there are diagrams. Or, rather, the same diagram, over and over. It's a replication of the pool in the last moment he remembers, marked with distances in meters, references to earlier equations, and the relative positions of all three of them -- labeled JW, SH, and JM.

Then it just stops, and the rest of the pages are blank.]

[confidente]

[ The moment he opens it he's engrossed, the gears of his mind start turning as he tries to process everything written down. It's a lot to take in. He doubles back a few times, re-reading a page he had previously read. Forward. Back again.

This is amazing. Really. The amount of things Sherlock noticed compared to him honestly astounds him, it always does. He manages to keep the exclamations from escape his mouth this time. Only just. Despite stop him from smiling briefly though.

In the middle of staring at the diagrams something in his mind clicks, the gears grind to a screeching halt and he blinks. ]

Irene. [ A beat. ] That's her name, Irene Adler. [ But that's not his point. ] Look I could be wrong about this, ridiculously wrong, but she knows us. She's been in the flat. So unless she simply decided to break into the flat to take a shower and parade around in a dead, or comatose, man's housecoat, we must have made it out of there alive. [ Only he has no idea how. He stabbing blindly in the dark, hoping to hit the truth or maybe something close to it. ]

[workaphilic]

[He leans out of the fridge and closes it with his elbow, the butter balanced on his forearm. His brow draws together in thought.]

The logic is sound, yes. [He dumps the tub on the counter and fishes around for a knife.] But that theory hinges on the assumption that the castle is genuine, and that it's possible for us to have stumbled into a dimensional crossroad that has little regard for space-time and physics in general.

[He glances up meaningfully. By his expression, he could go either way.]

Are you willing to accept that?

[confidente]

[ He opens his mouth, then closes it. Good question. Is he willing to accept that? On the one hand he'll have that certainty that he isn't dead but on the other. He closes the journal and puts it down on the counter, almost trying to avoid meeting Sherlock's gaze. ]

I don't know. [ He brings his a hand up to his face, covering it with a sigh. ] Maybe.

It's better than being driven mad not knowing if we're alive or not.

[workaphilic]

Doesn't work if it's just a "maybe." You have to be certain, or you'll simply start second-guessing yourself about this instead.

[He pauses, spreads butter on his toast while he turns this over in his head. It's the most improbable answer, certainly, but it's also the simplest, the only one that accounts for everything.

Not to mention the most interesting.]

[confidente]

[ He groans, pinching his nose between his fingers. He has to be certain that they really are in a magic castle? Yeah, he can do that. Of course he can. Right? Better than being dead. Better than not knowing if he's dead. ]

Yeah, I can accept it. [ Pretty sure he can. ] Even if it's bloody insane.

[workaphilic]

[He doesn't answer at first. Just stands back and watches for a while. Oh, hey, this toast is way more delicious than the first one was. Neat.]

I'll have to correct you if I find evidence to the contrary, you realize.

[He doesn't have it in him to just accept it outright. As a possibility, yes, but.... Eliminate the impossible and all that.]

[confidente]

[ That's because it is warm instead of cold. Cold toast is never that delicious. He lower his hand, finally, and looks at him. ]

Of course, wouldn't expect anything less.

[workaphilic]

Good.

[He nods, then wanders back over to scoop his journal off the counter and put it back in his pocket where it belongs, munching on his toast almost absentmindedly. Still an open investigation. Having theories about the answer isn't enough; he wants (needs) to know the how of it.

But that's his problem. If John is satisfied, then that's fine. That's better. It assuages the guilt (a little).]

I can probably finish the investigation on my own, then. [beat] Don't necessarily need to be constantly updating you. [another beat] Unless you'd like me to.

[Doesn't need to keep reminding John of it if he doesn't want to think about it, he means. Out of sight, out of mind, isn't that what people say?]

[confidente]

[ He watches it disappear into his pocket, crossing his arms across his chest. Satisfied, yes, he's got some sense of certainty. Possible confirmation that they are alive. It's enough for him. ]

Well, you don't have to. I don't mind, either way. [ A beat. ] But like you said, a fresh perspective can help.

[ Besides, he misses it. Cases. Investigations. Being dragged around god knows where to track down a suspect and all that. ]

[workaphilic]

Your input is always of value to me, John. [He mocks consideration.] Well. Some times more than others. Actually, always may be too strong a term....

[He's teasing. Really.]

[confidente]

[ Oh, look at you, such the joker. ] Of course, it's just sometimes, when you're skull refuses you talk to you. Or if a case has something to do with the solar system.

[ He's never letting that go. And no, that is not an grin creeping onto his face. Nope. ]

[workaphilic]

[He rolls his eyes, but it's good-natured.]

Yes, alright. The next time we have a case that's inextricably linked with the names of floating balls of rock thousands of miles away, I'll be sure to consult you immediately.

[confidente]

[ His grin spreads a bit more. ]

Good, good.

[workaphilic]

[It's easy to return, now that he's (finally, finally) begun to relax again. Conflict resolution through civil conversation, who knew?]

Not sure where you got the idea about my skull, though. It's always appreciated my company.

[confidente]

[ Eyebrow raise. ] You're only saying that because it couldn't talk back.

[workaphilic]

Solid evidence, as far as I'm concerned.

[confidente]

What? How is that solid evidence?

[workaphilic]

Love to explain, but it gets a bit complicated. Imagine the castle won't let me talk about it. You understand.

[he is the lyingest lying liar that ever lied.]

[confidente]

[ John laughs, shaking his head. ]

That's a bloody cop out. You don't have any evidence.

[workaphilic]

Can't know that for sure, can you? So the conclusion stands.

[confidente]

[ God, Sherlock. You're such a dick when you're right about things. ]

Stop that.

[workaphilic]

[He prefers "self-confident."]

Stop what?

[confidente]

[ Smug dick is a better description. ]

Stop that, the thing you're doing with your cheekbones. All smug and...

[workaphilic]

No idea what you're talking about. I can't help my bone structure, John.