Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
not_a_hero) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2012-06-03 02:18 pm
not_a_hero) wrote in entrancelogs2012-06-03 02:18 pm
Entry tags:
The Adventure of the Honest Carouser
Who: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson
Where: Floor 2, Room 21
When: June 2nd
Rating: T for drinking
Summary: Things have been on a downward spiral for Sherlock for the past few weeks. He can ignore it, he can avoid it, but eventually it was going to catch up with him. And then suddenly it did.
The Story:
Depressants. Sherlock was no stranger to a glass of aged port or wine, the occasional whiskey, brandy, or dry ale, but they had never been his drug of choice. Mind altering substances that dulled the mind had little use to him. Alcohol made him slow, it clouded his mind where stimulants cleared it. Alcohol was the antithesis to his preferred state of mind. He couldn't focus through the headache, though. The pounding, the sick, sour feeling in his sinuses, the pain that distracted him from everything but the desire to be away from light and all forms stimulation. Inebriation was the lesser of the two evils, putting his body at least in peace to let his mind--disabled to some extent but still processing, still working--to idle over the things he desired to contemplate and explore.
Stupid, stupid, depressants. One slip from thoughts of viral infections and it was back in the downward spiral of doubt and fear and self-deprecation he'd been fighting since his fight with Evelyn, exasperated by Moriarty's arrival, made confused by the glimpses he'd been given during the godtier event. Clumsy hands kept him away from the violin. He hated this. Drunk and emotionally miserable or sober and physically miserable. It was a ridiculous choice to have to make. Nothing guaranteed sobering up would release him from his conflicted conscious, though. So he swirled his brandy in his tumbler before drinking from it again, keeping the headache away.
At least he wasn't the only one not enjoying this. Not that John's misery made for excellent company.
Where: Floor 2, Room 21
When: June 2nd
Rating: T for drinking
Summary: Things have been on a downward spiral for Sherlock for the past few weeks. He can ignore it, he can avoid it, but eventually it was going to catch up with him. And then suddenly it did.
The Story:
Depressants. Sherlock was no stranger to a glass of aged port or wine, the occasional whiskey, brandy, or dry ale, but they had never been his drug of choice. Mind altering substances that dulled the mind had little use to him. Alcohol made him slow, it clouded his mind where stimulants cleared it. Alcohol was the antithesis to his preferred state of mind. He couldn't focus through the headache, though. The pounding, the sick, sour feeling in his sinuses, the pain that distracted him from everything but the desire to be away from light and all forms stimulation. Inebriation was the lesser of the two evils, putting his body at least in peace to let his mind--disabled to some extent but still processing, still working--to idle over the things he desired to contemplate and explore.
Stupid, stupid, depressants. One slip from thoughts of viral infections and it was back in the downward spiral of doubt and fear and self-deprecation he'd been fighting since his fight with Evelyn, exasperated by Moriarty's arrival, made confused by the glimpses he'd been given during the godtier event. Clumsy hands kept him away from the violin. He hated this. Drunk and emotionally miserable or sober and physically miserable. It was a ridiculous choice to have to make. Nothing guaranteed sobering up would release him from his conflicted conscious, though. So he swirled his brandy in his tumbler before drinking from it again, keeping the headache away.
At least he wasn't the only one not enjoying this. Not that John's misery made for excellent company.
no subject
Truthfully, he didn't want to leave. This... awkward, tangled thing that was now weaving themselves between him needed to be either untied or at the very least acknowledged. Last time they'd had a proper conversation in here together they'd ended up laughing on the floor like school boys, and now it felt like pulling teeth to even spread a few words between the two of them.
no subject
Sherlock looked at John, oddly fascinated by the grey patch near the fringe of John's hair, maybe not even grey so much as differently blonde. Who greyed in thick patches? Was John going to turn calico? It was a stupid thought. He wasn't one hundred percent sure why he felt the need to inspect it.