001

[paradisamods]

[And, quite suddenly...

You're holding your journal. If you already were holding it, congratulations. If you weren't... you are now! Somebody wants your attention.

And get this: it's empty.

The old one's kicking around somewhere, but for now, look at what Paradisa gave you!]

Comments

[workaphilic]

Exactly.

[And suddenly he's on his feet, holding his journal up for John to see. He's bright, excited -- he's been so BORED since Paris.]

Yours, mine, everyone's. Empty.

[confidente]

Yes, I can see that. No need to show me. [ He turns a couple more pages before closing the book. ]

Any idea why?

[workaphilic]

None whatsoever.

[And it's GREAT, it's WONDERFUL, don't you see?

He hops on the sofa and starts rifling through the spaces between the cushions.... before just pulling them off entirely and throwing them on the floor. Hope that nap was enough for you, John, because the odds of sleeping again tonight might be kind of low.]

[confidente]

[ It's a mystery, like candy for a small child. He grins a little to himself (as it is never is fun being around a bored Sherlock) until he starts rifling around the sofa. ]

What are you doing?

[workaphilic]

Looking. It's likely that-- [the words stick, won't come out. Losses, losses, so inconvenient.

He clears his throat, shakes it off, and starts overturning stacks of papers he left on the floor.]

I'm looking.

[confidente]

Looking. [ He's not pleased with that, it's far too vague. ] Can't say what for?

[workaphilic]

[He's not going to answer that. It's obvious as far as he's concerned and he doesn't like talking about his loss more than necessary.]

Five years, John. That's how long people have been using these journals. Every page, every filter, every conversation -- perfectly recorded for five years. What does that tell you?

[confidente]

[ He does that. John knows him well enough not to take offense, to move onto the next thing, and he does without hesitation tapping the cover of his journal in thought. ]

Something has changed. Something in the inner workings of castle?

[workaphilic]

Must be.

[He's going through drawers, now, but thankfully restraining himself from dumping them out on the floor.]

The journals are important, integral. The scope of this place is hardly limited, it could have just as easily given us a means of communication that discarded early entries, or even not recorded them at all. Instead it hoards them, gives us a complete record of our collective stay here.

[Drawers are a bust. He slams the last one shut and glares around the room.]

So why change now? What's special about today?

[confidente]

I... don't know. Today is hardly any different from yesterday.

[workaphilic]

Except for the journals.

[Going after the chair cushions now. They're going to have the foundations of a seriously excellent blanket fort here in a bit.]

Not the first change in the past few weeks, either. Castle is losing its touch, apparently.

[confidente]

Expect for the journals.

[ Have fun trying to get him off his armchair, because he really doesn't feel like moving. ]

I would have preferred something less vague. Like a case.

[workaphilic]

God, don't remind me. [He sounds practically heartbroken over it.] Haven't had a proper case in months. Apparently murder is far less appealing when the effects aren't permanent. Annoying bit of psychology.

[confidente]

What about the townspeople? I heard death is permanent for them. Surely they have a few loose screws within their happy little existences.

[workaphilic]

[An unhappy sort of huff.]

Yes, you'd think so, wouldn't you? And yet.

[And yet here he is digging through the spaces in his chair because he's bored out of his mind. He straightens and waves his hands in a shooing sort of motion.]

Get up.

[confidente]

[ He doesn't, instead making himself a little more comfortable. ]

It won't kill you to ask nicely, Sherlock.

[workaphilic]

Why should I? The request is the same whether I say the extra words or not, I'm just being efficient.

Get up.

[confidente]

[ Still not moving. ]

[workaphilic]

[He just... glares stubbornly for a few seconds.]

Don't tell me you'd honestly prefer an insincere platitude to me being straightforward.

[confidente]

No, I just want to hear you stay it.

[workaphilic]

Please.

There, are you satisfied?

[confidente]

It'll have to do. [ Up he gets. ]

[workaphilic]

[He flings the bottom cushion on the floor with the others (a little overdramatically) and starts digging through the extra spaces. GRUMP GRUMP GRUMP.

He's totes going to let something boil over on the stove today out of spite.]

[confidente]

[ Grump away good sir, John's going to fix up the couch after putting his laptop down somewhere safe.

Do that and he'll make you clean it up. ]

Found it yet?

[workaphilic]

No.

[He twists himself around so he's sitting in the chair with his feet under him, and glares at the opposite wall.]

Need to localize my search more. Clearly it's done a good job hiding it.