(1/4) Sherlock slumped against the table, his forehead resting against the rapidly warming wood (currently thirty-five degrees Celcius/ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit/three hundred and eight point one five degrees Kelvin). He hated not having a case. He hated these slow days when he had nothing to do and no way to keep his mind occupied. Days like this made him feel like the junkie he would always be, like an addict locked away as his body strained for anything like the high of a case.
On days like these, he would kill for a cigarette. (Ingredients: acetanisole, acetic acid, acetonin, acetophenone, ammonium alginate, ammonium hydroxide, amyris oil, trans-Anethole, anisoldehyde–)
The worst part of these days was knowing that what he /really/ required wasn’t his seven per cent solution or a mountain of nicotine patches or an incredibly interesting experiment. He knew something that could pull him out of the withdrawals after a case was physical contact; he also knew he couldn’t simply ask someone for the necessary physical contact because he was /Sherlock Holmes./
For now, the table was an adequate substitute for the touch he so desperately wanted (needed?). The contact between his forehead and the wood grounded him some and helped him stop his mind from spiralling out of control.
He heard the door open as John returned from the clinic. When the shorter man finally climbed the stairs (tread less muffled than usual [always starts walking with his left foot, no limp today, limp comes back when it rains] suggesting that he’d worn his older pair of shoes, faint scent of lemon [lemon cleaning wipes in the cabinet with his spare clothes] which always meant he’d had to change into a new shirt after a younger patient was sick in the clinic–), he saw Sherlock sitting upright in the chair and staring into the microscope. He didn’t seem to notice that the younger’s back was unnaturally straight or that Sherlock was practically vibrating out of his skin because of his boredom.
“Tea?” John asked, flashing Sherlock an unaware smile as he passed to pull two mugs from the top shelf. Sherlock made a wordless humming noise that meant something along the lines of /yes please./ When the drink was placed beside him (one sugar, splash of milk, biscuit on the plate–), Sherlock waited until John was upstairs before he picked up the mug in order to cradle the warmth closer to him, closing his eyes to convince his brain that this was enough for now.
Re: All Sherlock wants is a hug
Sherlock slumped against the table, his forehead resting against the rapidly warming wood (currently thirty-five degrees Celcius/ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit/three hundred and eight point one five degrees Kelvin). He hated not having a case. He hated these slow days when he had nothing to do and no way to keep his mind occupied. Days like this made him feel like the junkie he would always be, like an addict locked away as his body strained for anything like the high of a case.
On days like these, he would kill for a cigarette. (Ingredients: acetanisole, acetic acid, acetonin, acetophenone, ammonium alginate, ammonium hydroxide, amyris oil, trans-Anethole, anisoldehyde–)
The worst part of these days was knowing that what he /really/ required wasn’t his seven per cent solution or a mountain of nicotine patches or an incredibly interesting experiment. He knew something that could pull him out of the withdrawals after a case was physical contact; he also knew he couldn’t simply ask someone for the necessary physical contact because he was /Sherlock Holmes./
For now, the table was an adequate substitute for the touch he so desperately wanted (needed?). The contact between his forehead and the wood grounded him some and helped him stop his mind from spiralling out of control.
He heard the door open as John returned from the clinic. When the shorter man finally climbed the stairs (tread less muffled than usual [always starts walking with his left foot, no limp today, limp comes back when it rains] suggesting that he’d worn his older pair of shoes, faint scent of lemon [lemon cleaning wipes in the cabinet with his spare clothes] which always meant he’d had to change into a new shirt after a younger patient was sick in the clinic–), he saw Sherlock sitting upright in the chair and staring into the microscope. He didn’t seem to notice that the younger’s back was unnaturally straight or that Sherlock was practically vibrating out of his skin because of his boredom.
“Tea?” John asked, flashing Sherlock an unaware smile as he passed to pull two mugs from the top shelf. Sherlock made a wordless humming noise that meant something along the lines of /yes please./ When the drink was placed beside him (one sugar, splash of milk, biscuit on the plate–), Sherlock waited until John was upstairs before he picked up the mug in order to cradle the warmth closer to him, closing his eyes to convince his brain that this was enough for now.