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[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]

It has to be somewhere.

[The other option is accepting that he might be wrong. Which isn't an option.]

[confidente]

I'll check my room. [ And he's up again, disappearing through the door to his room. Who knows why it'd be in there, but it won't hurt to check. ]

[workaphilic]

[Meanwhile, he's just... gonna pace around, occasionally poking through places he's already looked. HURRY HURRY he needs to be right, okay.]

[confidente]

[ He comes back a few moments later, another journal in his hands. It's his old one. Better than nothing right? ]

You were right.

[workaphilic]

Of course I was.

[But he looks pleased anyway, pfff. He holds a hand out to take it, eagerly. Suck it, castle, he's gonna figure this shit out.]

[confidente]

[ He looks from his journal to Sherlock's hand and frowns, he isn't all that sure he should hand it over. ]

A quick look, then I'm putting it away. Alright? [ Because it is his and he really doesn't want Sherlock to abuse it via experiments. ]

[workaphilic]

Yes, yes, fine.

[He's grabbing it before John can change his mind and starts flipping. Honestly, good luck wrangling it back from him.]

I'll need to find mine eventually, but this will do for now.

[confidente]

[ It's gone before he can open his mouth and say anything else, so he closes it again and just watches him. ]

It has to be around somewhere in the castle if not in the flat.

[workaphilic]

Obviously.

[He's checking key pages first, like Lois' compendium, before looking at it with a finer toothed comb. The paper, the binding, the leather of the cover.]

Where did you find this one? Exactly?

[confidente]

Hmm? Oh, in my bed, under the sheets.

[workaphilic]

[He frowns. He's somehow managing to think, examine, listen, and talk all at the same time without much effort.]

Annoying. Why hide mine so thoroughly if it was just going to put yours where you were bound to find it eventually?

[confidente]

[ Shrug. ]

No idea.

[workaphilic]

[A huff. He tilts his head some, now talking more to the empty air (the castle) than to John.]

Can't hide it from me forever. Even magical castles have predictable patterns.

[confidente]

Since when are you an expert on omnipotent magical castles?

[workaphilic]

Somebody needs to be the expert, might as well be me.

[confidente]

Careful, people might start to think you're full of yourself.

[workaphilic]

Nothing wrong with a bit of pride in one's own work, is there?

[John's journal seems to be enough to get him to abandon the search for now, though, because he dumps himself on the sofa to paw through it. At least he's calmed down a bit?]

[confidente]

Not at all. [ A beat. ] You just take it to an obnoxious extreme.

[workaphilic]

I prefer to think of it as "being honest."

[confidente]

I think you're confusing honesty with being a smartass.

[workaphilic]

[he shrugs!]

Not much of a difference, is there? Just depends on whether or not people want to hear it.

[confidente]

[ John laughs and shakes his head. ]

People never want to hear it.

Found anything yet?

[workaphilic]

[He's studying a particular page very closely, now; his nose is quite literally in the book.]

Possibly.

[confidente]

Care to share with the rest of us? Or is our malevolent host preventing you from doing that?

[workaphilic]

[He pauses, considering. Eh, he probably has the patience to talk around this one.]

Can't properly confirm without my own journal for comparison, but as far as I can tell, nothing is missing. All the filters, all the data. [He rubs his thumb over the page.] Even the spills are perfectly preserved.