Light eats night and all I never said

[saidhe]

CHARACTERS: Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler
LOCATION: the Oxygen Garden
WARNINGS: Disturbing imagery? Some drug use. Holmes without a shower.
SUMMARY: The shiteth hath hitteth the fan. Eth.
NOTES: --



He's glad it had never occurred to him that it might have been whatever was in the cannabis, because that would have meant his mind had really gone to the dogs - what a silly thought, what an insane thought, when something had gone so similarly for so long, and to assume in one single flourish that the constant was the cause of the change.

The problem here is that he's not sure what's worse, when it hits. There are these violent changes between one from the other, and each is equally- equally-

At first there is everything. There are piano notes laced on top of shoe sizes and tobacco types, there are different types of fabric threading piled onto stovepipe hats and the memory of lavender, numbers and equations spark up like fireworks, and each flash and bang makes him flinch too much, with every different blade of grass here that he can see that he can see and he can tell the shades of green from the shades of aquamarine and it's about then when his pipe falls from his fingers, when there's the knowledge of how to properly tie a bowtie that slams violently into the sight of a cracked in skull (it's Watson's, John's, he's sure), and blood and crimson start to glaze all over his thoughts like a cake, with limbs bursting through and letters and alphabets he's not even sure exists and, oh, eight is a perfect cube while nine is a perfect square and that's lovely, that's just so very exquisite, he marvels, until a tiger swallows the words whole and lounges across his fireplace as though it's always meant to be something charred and ruined and inflamed and then

There's nothing.

There's nothing, there's not the hint of word, there's not the hint of a thought. There's this shell of a Sherlock Holmes, there's this empty- fucking- thing. And for a long moment he doesn't move. There's a scream in the distance and he flinches, but he doesn't stand, he doesn't budge, he doesn't lift from his place and bother to walk down a hall, to leave what is clearly the source of all of this. Because there is nothing.

There is nothing.

And Holmes breathes in deep the fear toxin out of an absolute apathy to do anything but let himself fester.

Comments

[jilt]

[ irene adler does not do selfless, charitable acts. she is not given to rescues. irene flutters away from danger as fast as she can, even more so after the incident with the tea.

however, she knows holmes and his habits. she knows where he spends his time, and by all accounts, he spends his time in a most inconvenient place considering the latest insanity to break loose upon this ship. so irene takes account of her acquaintances, and finds so very many of them missing. her little flock has scattered to the wind, and it's all very trying, but if holmes had been in his place, she would have been content to sit in her room and wait for the dust to settle.

but holmes, in typical irritating fashion, is not in his room, nor anywhere to be found.

so for her own peace of mind (and future entertainment) irene must go seek him out. she winds a scarf about her face, layer after layer after layer, and goes down to the garden.

it's a predictable mess. screaming people, everyone carrying on, assaulted by intangible demons. she picks through them all carefully until she finds holmes. and of course, he's lying on the ground, half-mad. it's business as usual, in truth. is this what the good doctor puts up with every day? ]

Come along, up you get.

[ she nudges him first with the toe of her boot, before kneeling at his side and starting to pull at him in earnest. ]

[saidhe]

[ A whole new breed of mad, perhaps. Watson has certainly dealt with Holmes in many a state - some were sure to have been worse than this, and that wasn't even to simplify Holmes' dangers to their cases. Opium, heroin, various medical cures and potables - which wasn't to mention his very favorite drug of choice. On an occasion, he'd always recall, with bluing skin and a needle caught in his harm with hostility rather than its usual loving cradle; that had been one evening of particular color. ]

[ But this was something else entirely, a kind of light that's gone from his eyes and Irene stoops over him. He realizes, faintly that he has spit trailed down his jaw, and when his hands reaches up to wipe at it, not only does it miss, but it's with the sluggish speed of someone who's just had a stroke. ]

One foot in front of the other, to get from one place to the next. Even his words are delirious, and he grasps a hand onto what he thinks is the wall he was just sitting on. It's her hand instead, and he's absolute dead weight. ] What is that called? What would you call that?

[jilt]

[ there's real fear twisting in her stomach, but irene won't let it show on her face. she's made a living of dealing with fear, of tamping it down and smiling through it, refusing to let it color her actions.

it's one of the reasons irene adler's hands never shake. ]

I'd call it good advice.

[ with her free hand, she wipes at his mouth. the fabric of her sleeve is probably harsh, but it's the best she can do for now. he seems incapable of managing it himself. ]

Sit up.

[ her words are accompanied by a pull, irene tugging on his arm. he's heavier than she, but irene's managed to cart around a husband or two in a pinch. she can manage holmes. ]

[saidhe]

[ Sit. Sit. Sit. The word is so familiar and yet so far away, something scattered somewhere about his mind that he can't quite grasp onto. His fingers feel like tendrils of shadow, simultaneously slinking into every bright, bright corner of his mind at the moment and trying to take everything while coming away with nothing. Carefully, slowly, particularly when Irene's hands start to close around him, there are scattered pieces returning. ]

[ He winces at her touch as though she's burning him, but it's nothing of her fault; it's the utter torment of each of his words returning to him, one by one. They flash bang inside of his mind, and he flinches violently with each one as he starts to stagger to his feet. ]

Fantastic to see you make it, Ms. Adler; it seems you've made it for that dinner date after all. [ He says so cheerily, and for a moment it's as if he's cognizant, but he's shortly after pushing past her arms to be violently ill onto the floor. ]

[ It's not his own fault. It's jarring when the entirety of the English language and every piece of knowledge you've ever learned in your incredibly cerebral life suddenly floods into your mind like magma, scorching every corner of his skull. And he can think but it's too much and it hurts and in retrospect he'll likely have far too wild a manner of self-loathing for how much his hands shudder and shake as they suddenly grasp onto hers for support and dear life. But for the time being, he's not going to complain. ]

This isn't Switzerland. [ His voice is hoarse, as though he's just been smoking several bowls full of his tobacco. Or, alternatively, which is more likely, as if he's just vomited onto the floor of the oxygen garden. ]

[jilt]

[ you've made that dinner date after all.

her face has gone pale, lips pressed together into a thin line. perhaps he'll be the better for it, now that he's thrown up. and irene will be shoving this coat down the incinerator, more's the pity. ]

No, no it's not. And just as well, I hear Switzerland is dreadful this time of year.

[ the lightness of her tone is forced, but one can hardly tell. irene adler is an actress at the very heart of it all, a woman who can play her role without falter. she swings his arm over her shoulders without hesitation, bearing his weight as best she can. he's taller than her, which is both welcome and inconvenient by turns, but if she braces herself against the wall, then she can manage nicely. ]