sʜᴇʀʟᴏᴄᴋ ʜᴏʟᴍᴇs

rules: tag some ppl that you want to know better!  tagged by: @neverxcomplain tagging:   you, reading this, if you wanna

MUSE

Name:   sherlock holmes Nickname:   sherly, or if you wanna be mean ( /ahem/ staring at u watson) then sherly no-mates Zodiac Sign:   capricorn Gender:   male Favorite Color:   blue, black, green Average Hours of Sleep:   3-5, occasionally 6 Last Thing You Googled:   how to console your friend ( modern verse ) Height:  179cm ( main verse / rdj’s sherlock) 183cm ( modern / bbc verse)

MUN

Bleary gaze fixated on lighted laptop screen, Watson pursed his lips, brows knotted in silent frustration. His previously rapid keystrokes stilled, although his fingers trembled over the keys. The doctor diverted his gaze to a notepad beside the laptop, eyes narrowing as he scanned over the facts of the previous case. In an instant, words eluded him, a block to both creative and divertive outlet erected in his mind. 

Damn it.

Even London, bustling as it often was, seemed almost silent in the wee hours of the morning, not quite night, yet not quite light; the flat, too, mirrored the quiet, the only light emanating from the laptop. All was tranquil, save John Watson’s thoughts.

Exhaling through his nose, Watson moved one of his hands to the kitchen counter, fingers slowly curling into a fist as he returned his attention to the screen. Text blurred before him, yet he remained motionless, unwilling to return to bed.

Not yet…not yet.

Coffee, coffee, coffee...

For a usually so overactive mind as Sherlock’s, it was surprisingly simple as he woke up from his short slumber. Uncombed hair pointed in all directions, eyes barely even half-open, not nearly awake enough to walk straight, but regardless the detective stood up, pulled his morning robe around him, and navigated with slightly unbalanced steps from the living room where he had fallen asleep, and towards the kitchen.

A yawn forced his eyes shut when he stepped barefooted through the kitchen door, moving straight towards the bench where he knew, even with eyes mostly shut, that the coffee pot would be waiting for him. In his half-asleep state he only barely noticed the light in the room, but it took him a moment longer than had he been awake, to realize that it was not coming from any of the lamps in the room. In fact, the sleepy detective had even grabbed the coffee pot and turned on the sink, just about to fill it up, before the realization suddenly hit him, and he stopped mid-motion.

“ ... Oh.”

With a glance over his shoulder at his friend who was sat in front of his laptop, Sherlock added, still only a mutter under his breath;  “-morning,”  before he turned to fill up the pot. He would’ve asked what Watson was doing up at this hour, but frankly, he was too tired still.

... Besides, the laptop alone gave him a pretty good idea.

“Oh God…” 

An uncharacteristically quiet rasp passed the doctor’s lips as the full measure of the fumes swept over him, his head swimming as he lunged for the nearest window frame. Frantic fingers clasped at the window’s edge, ramming it upward with enough force for the glass panels to rattle. After Watson shoved his head outside the window, a hearty coughing bout ensued, pallid and exasperated features glancing back at the consulting detective. 

“Is your experiment perfecting the art of KILLING your fellow lodger, or merely a test of his PATIENCE–and lungs?” 

His gaze narrowed, darting between the experiment and the culprit himself. 

“Is whatever noxious sludge you’re brewing even legal?! …Good God, my head…” 

“ Watson! Do NOT open that window,”   Sherlock warned once more when he noticed the doctor moving towards said window, but this time, his warnings seemed to fall upon deaf ears.   “ Days of important work will be LOST—”   he continued, hurriedly stepping over books, pillows, and all sorts of odd equipment spread across the floor, towards his friend, in hopes of preventing him from what he was just about to do. But it was too late, for suddenly, there was fresh air entering the apartment, and the cloud of smoke slowly began to drift out of the opening.

“... And now they are forever gone,”   he exclaimed, throwing his arms out in despair, before his gaze lowered defeatedly onto the floor with a sullen expression on his face. And there he stood for a long moment, seemingly not even hearing John’s complaints about the experiment, until finally, he looked back up at him again.

“ Well... I do hope you are happy, Watson. Because of your FRAGILE lungs who apparently cannot take a little smoke, I have now spent the best part of two days recreating an important aspect of a crime that was recently committed, but in vain. That ‘noxious sludge’ just so happens to be what could have solved it all, had you not been so hasty with opening that window...”

“I hardly see how any work can be of more importance than breathing. Is it too much to ask to be able to sit in one’s rooms without acrid fumes filling the air? Oh, how logical of you–’Yes, Watson, you survived hellish conditions before–allow me to recreate them for you in the comfort of your own home. Free of charge.’ For someone who prides himself on precision, your measurement of ‘slighty’ is outlandishly unsound; I c-can’t see or–b-breathe!” 

“ My dear... I had no idea you had such love for the arts of DRAMA, Watson. Truly, have you considered putting aside your writing, and pursue your talent—? Oh, do not give me that look. As soon as the experiment is over, I promise, you shall have a fume-free environment. I’ll even allow you to open up as many windows as you like... On the condition that the curtains must remain shut.”

“What the blazes are you concocting NOW , Holmes?! I survived the war and London smog only to be suffocated by your experiments. For God’s sake, let me pry open a window, at the least!” 

“ No, no! There shall be NO opening of windows here, Watson, lest you wish to ruin DAYS of work, which, may I add, is of utmost importance. Now, as you said yourself, you survived a war— then I have no doubt in your abilities to survive in a room that is but slightly filled with smoke.”

To be completely honest, the reaction that he got from his mischievous act was priceless, hence the smile plastered on his face as the man waited for Sherlock to wake up. The same that fell into a flat line and a quirk of his brows in disbelief, matching perfectly the look on his eyes.

         “– - Is that really all you caught up from all that I said?” Drew paused, still looking with squinted eyes at Sherlock and pondering if it was remotely worth to repeat his previous speech. No, it wasn’t, the man would fall asleep all over again and then instead of a gentle nudging would turn into throwing the book at his head.  “Answering your question, yes they are pretty and… Which book is that one by the way?” If it was a good one, it’d be a shame to throw it, he mused. 

     “Ah, yes. I am afraid my ability to hear while unconscious is not too grand at the present moment,” Sherlock pointed out, matter of factly, as if it was something that needed to be explained. “... I’ll work on it,” he then added, sounding quite reassuring, although whether or not he was actually being serious about it, only time could tell.

        Glancing down at the book he had used as a pillow to see which one it was, the detective felt an upcoming urge to roll his eyes once he recognized the cover. “Monsieur Lecoq, by Émile Gaboriau,” he replied, not sounding too thrilled. “One of Watson’s favorites, I believe...” Oh, yes, he could faintly recall having had a brief discussion with the good doctor about how the book should’ve rather been used as a manual for what detectives shouldn’t do.

    “Well now, I know I’m a boring person but hey… Falling asleep is not by far a discreet way to say you’re bored my friend”          The piano man was not offended, well, at first he was until then he came to the realization that perhaps being a detective, and a well-known one, was not as easy as Sherlock made it look like. Now there were two options for him to choose from: keep quiet and let his poor fella  sleep or sneakily push the book that seemed to be the pillar to his perfect equilibrium for sleeping. Hard, hard, hard…      “WAKE UP SUNSHINE! The sun is up and it wants to see your pretty eyes”  he said as he did the later alternative, trying to keep his laughter within him. “Come on, at least make it to the couch.” 

        Drew’s voice as he spoke only managed to poke at Sherlock’s consciousness while he was slumbering, only able to process that something was being said and not what, as each word almost appeared to be spoken from somewhere far, far off in the distance.

        Though as the book underneath the detective’s head was pushed, he was forced to wake up, a temporary moment of disorientation and confusion followed as he sat himself up straight again almost immediately. Inhaling sharply, he then blinked a few times while trying to suppress a yawn, all the while taking in what had just been said.

Now, that Sherlock would fall asleep at random moments during the day was not as uncommon as one may suspect. After all, although solving cases was of course what he did for a living ( and wouldn’t have replaced with anything in the world ) it was at times physically exhausting, as it had him running about, following clues wherever they may take him.