It was some time before anything made sense again. He relapsed because he was partially human and because he missed magic, because magic was so hard to even touch Aboveground unless, apparently, he was dying or desperate,, but eventually he fell into something like stasis. Nicotine and caffeine balanced out by sleeping as little as he could get away with and eating nothing near enough.
When the vertigo hit, he could feel the Labyrinth reach out to sustain him.
For a period of many months, it was the faintest of magic that held him together, and it was then that he felt as if things might turn out alright, even if his home was destroyed and no one would ever understand him.
+
221B was Sherlock’s second home and it may have been a disaster but it was his and he guarded it. He knew every step, the way it creaked, he knew the way the carpets lay, the ease with which each door opened, he knew it. It was his.
This was how he knew Mycroft was sitting on his sofa waiting for him before he’d opened the door entirely. There was a general wrongness, compared to the way he’d left it, and as he scanned, intuition bloomed into observations: the newspaper articles tacked to the fridge slightly skewed (Mycroft checking on what he was eating, or more like if, perhaps); door from the kitchen to the sitting room closed where Sherlock always left it open; the light from under the door, whereas he’d left the lights in the next room off…
“Dare I guess the reason you deign to grace the doorway of my humble home?” Sherlock asked. He slipped his coat off his shoulders to drape it over the kitchen chair.
“They’ve reached a ceasefire,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock nearly ran into the door in his rush to open it. “What?”
“Father and the King of the Sea have reached a ceasefire. It’s to our advantage, really; the other kingdoms tire of the war and sympathize with father, and so hostilities should soon cease.”
Sherlock felt his mind go still. “Has Mummy woken up then?”
Mycroft was sat at the edge of Sherlock’s sofa, his umbrella resting on the ground between his knees, expression blank as ever. “Not yet,” he said. “But Father says she may yet.”
“Well,” Sherlock said. “That’s good to hear. Now get out of my flat.”
FILL: scenes from a book no one wrote -- 5/?
It was some time before anything made sense again. He relapsed because he was partially human and because he missed magic, because magic was so hard to even touch Aboveground unless, apparently, he was dying or desperate,, but eventually he fell into something like stasis. Nicotine and caffeine balanced out by sleeping as little as he could get away with and eating nothing near enough.
When the vertigo hit, he could feel the Labyrinth reach out to sustain him.
For a period of many months, it was the faintest of magic that held him together, and it was then that he felt as if things might turn out alright, even if his home was destroyed and no one would ever understand him.
+
221B was Sherlock’s second home and it may have been a disaster but it was his and he guarded it. He knew every step, the way it creaked, he knew the way the carpets lay, the ease with which each door opened, he knew it. It was his.
This was how he knew Mycroft was sitting on his sofa waiting for him before he’d opened the door entirely. There was a general wrongness, compared to the way he’d left it, and as he scanned, intuition bloomed into observations: the newspaper articles tacked to the fridge slightly skewed (Mycroft checking on what he was eating, or more like if, perhaps); door from the kitchen to the sitting room closed where Sherlock always left it open; the light from under the door, whereas he’d left the lights in the next room off…
“Dare I guess the reason you deign to grace the doorway of my humble home?” Sherlock asked. He slipped his coat off his shoulders to drape it over the kitchen chair.
“They’ve reached a ceasefire,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock nearly ran into the door in his rush to open it. “What?”
“Father and the King of the Sea have reached a ceasefire. It’s to our advantage, really; the other kingdoms tire of the war and sympathize with father, and so hostilities should soon cease.”
Sherlock felt his mind go still. “Has Mummy woken up then?”
Mycroft was sat at the edge of Sherlock’s sofa, his umbrella resting on the ground between his knees, expression blank as ever. “Not yet,” he said. “But Father says she may yet.”
“Well,” Sherlock said. “That’s good to hear. Now get out of my flat.”
Mycroft did.