009 || written/dictated;

[workaphilic]

[ Private ]

[The journal opens to Sherlock already talking. The sentence stutters before the filter is written in, then continues smoothly as soon as the restrictions of his loss are appeased.]

-- clearly a hardy subspecies, then, at least in terms of temperature patterns. Fitting, given the circumstances of the "gift." Interesting choice, actually, managed not to be completely boring. More interesting that the castle seems to care all of the sudden about my entertainment.

[The bees have been moved back into the sitting room because, well, John's not here anymore to complain about it, is he? Good for the bees, because the dampness of the bathroom was threatening to damage the integrity of the hive. Good for Sherlock, because he's already deciphered the duties and movement patterns of worker bees based on their relative age and the needs of the colony.]

Probably a placation, and a good one. Most residents receive mementos or objects of emotional significance from home. Makes them feel nostalgic, but it's the safe kind of nostalgia, something they have the castle to thank for.

[He gets so much more done when he's alone. Far too many petty restrictions to adhere to otherwise.

It's better, supposed to be better, should be better.]

Provides them with a sense of normalcy and ingratiates them to the castle without interrupting the status quo. Obvious. But apparently effective.

[Except he's going on three days without sleep, now, and it isn't because the bees are captivating enough to warrant it. (Though they are that, too. Fascinating creatures.) There's a nagging in the back of his mind, nagging, nagging, nagging. Persistent and annoying. Keeps him from thinking, keeps him from not thinking.

A pause, and he exhales noisily.]

Status quo.

----

[ John Watson ]

Stop being an idiot.

SH

[........ Okay, well. Not the best start, admittedly. Baby steps.]

----

[When he's finished, he lingers, letting the tip of his pen tap rapidly against the page. He's been distracted, hasn't been as up-to-date on the journal as he usually is. But now that's he's skimming it again -- god, sometimes he really just CAN'T STAND you people.]

Tell me, residents. What is it like?

[There's an edge in his tone that he's not really bothering to hide -- not overtly malicious but certainly not all sunshine and daisies, either. Might as well hang a signpost reading HERE BE DOUCHEBAGGERY, PROCEED WITH CAUTION.]

Comments

[workaphilic]

If the structure of the building is that feeble, then the walls need to be replaced. I'm helping.

[confidente]

Sulking doesn't help. [ He finishes up the last of it, putting the stuff away. ] Right, I think it's time you go to bed.

[workaphilic]

[WHATEVER it helps him. sulk marathons are the best shut up go away.]

I'm fine.

[His mantra of the day, apparently. HE ALREADY ATE WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM HIM.]

[confidente]

[ Nope, never. ]

You haven't slept for three days. You're not fine.

[ EXPECTANT LOOK. Get up Sherlock, you're going to sleep a full nights sleep (and maybe more) dammit. B| ]

[workaphilic]

I still have another few hours before my executive functions are compromised.

[confidente]

We're not waiting a few hours. Bed. Now.

[workaphilic]

[He drops his head on the table. He's starting to feel it, now that they're talking about it, a sort of heaviness in his arms and legs and neck.]

You're worse than Mycroft sometimes, do you know that?

[He's shooting for biting but really it just comes out sort of petulant.]

[confidente]

I know. [ He moves around the table to where Sherlock is sitting, patting his back much like a parent does to a sulking child. ] Come on, or I'll drag you to bed myself.

[workaphilic]

Fine where I am. [He rolls his shoulders stubbornly away from the touch.] Nap will suffice.

[confidente]

Sherlock. [ He was serious when he said he'd drag you bro. Really. You've only got one chance to get up yourself before the dragging commences. ]

[workaphilic]

[He buries his nose into his arms and makes a sound that is definitely not a whine.]

Go away.

[confidente]

[ He warned you. No one can say that he didn't.

He grabs a hold of one of those arms, pulling it out and over his shoulder. Shame no one is going to be able to see Sherlock Holmes' short friend pull him off the table without much trouble, it's quite the sight to see. ]

[workaphilic]

[If Sherlock Holmes makes a really undignified noise and no one is around to hear it, can it be proven in a court of law?

No? Awesome.]

John-- [He tries to dig his heels in, drag himself back the other way, but it's not very effective.] What are you-- Stop.

[confidente]

[ John heard it. And he will never forget it. Ever. ]

No. You're not sleeping-- [ By some miracle he manages to get Sherlock up and clear the table, to start dragging him towards his bedroom. ] On the bloody table.

[workaphilic]

It's the most logical-- [A frustrated exhale.] This is excessive.

[confidente]

Shut up. [ Thank God he doesn't have to go far. He uses his foot to open the door and drag Sherlock in, unceremoniously dumping the taller man onto his bed. ]

[workaphilic]

[He sits up immediately, indignantly.]

There's nothing stopping me from going back out there once you leave, you know.

[He's spiteful enough to do it, but he won't. Has his bed always been this super comfortable? Damn.]

[confidente]

[ A hand on his shoulder John pushes him back down, yanking enough blanket out from underneath him and pulling it over his head. ]

Uh huh. Go to sleep.

[workaphilic]

[He goes down without much of a fight, grumbling something incoherent and rolling over so his back is to John. HE WILL BE A BABY ABOUT THIS TO THE END.

T-minus fifteen seconds before he's out like a light.]

[confidente]

Goodnight, Sherlock. [ He waits until he's sure Sherlock's out like a light before leaving the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Everyone in the Satis tower will sleep well tonight. ]