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barter_system) wrote2012-03-08 04:36 pm
barter_system) wrote2012-03-08 04:36 pm
Entry tags:
lock and key, for betonit
Sherlock plucked away at the strings of his violin, not in contemplation, but in frustration. His morning spent assuring their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, would have her rent by the next day, and then spent sending a telegraph to his brother to ask for assistance, he was in far from a decent mood to say the very least of it.
Ruminations aside, he should have been pleased, he had a thrilling new case that could prove to be most adventurous, and his mind could use the respite from the monotony of late. Still, his eyes remained fixed out the window of their flat, on the dreary, gray world outside, and the people milling about and going on with their daily tasks.
Flour on cuff. Baker. Grease on cheek and sleeves. Factory worker. Blood specks on sleeve and collar, pattern indicates other cloth was covering the area, so a butcher. Difficult to tell what sort of animal it was from this distance.
Pluck. Governess. Pluck. Teacher. Pluck. Doctor. Pluck. Mother of eight. Pluck--
Footsteps told him of his freshly roused companion, and he continued to pluck at the strings of his violin as he waited for Watson to come to his eventual conclusions. As he entered his room, he did not look up at him, still far too annoyed to offer more than a scathing glance.
"I've taken it upon myself to relieve you of your checkbook and what small amount of coin you had on your person after last night. It's locked safely in my drawer, and I expect you'll ask me for it when you find yourself in need of it."
Ruminations aside, he should have been pleased, he had a thrilling new case that could prove to be most adventurous, and his mind could use the respite from the monotony of late. Still, his eyes remained fixed out the window of their flat, on the dreary, gray world outside, and the people milling about and going on with their daily tasks.
Flour on cuff. Baker. Grease on cheek and sleeves. Factory worker. Blood specks on sleeve and collar, pattern indicates other cloth was covering the area, so a butcher. Difficult to tell what sort of animal it was from this distance.
Pluck. Governess. Pluck. Teacher. Pluck. Doctor. Pluck. Mother of eight. Pluck--
Footsteps told him of his freshly roused companion, and he continued to pluck at the strings of his violin as he waited for Watson to come to his eventual conclusions. As he entered his room, he did not look up at him, still far too annoyed to offer more than a scathing glance.
"I've taken it upon myself to relieve you of your checkbook and what small amount of coin you had on your person after last night. It's locked safely in my drawer, and I expect you'll ask me for it when you find yourself in need of it."
no subject
The money was gone. He had gambled it away, and it certainly wasn't his first offense of this type. Sherlock had every right to be furious with him. Rent was, after all, due the following day and their only hope was seeking aid from friends or family. Watson imagined Sherlock had already swallowed his own pride and contacted his brother by now. Yet there was no trace of humility as Watson entered the room –– for now, he would remain defensive if only because he felt terribly guilty and embarrassed and didn't care to admit it.
Sighing, he slumped into his chair and began fiddling with his walking stick, letting its end thump roughly against the floor a moment later as he suddenly sat forward. It was a only a prelude to irrational indignation that was to follow once he'd heard the news of his checkbook.
"That won't be necessary, Holmes. I'm not a child," he snapped, stealing a withering glance at his friend. Directing his anger towards Sherlock was undeserved and Watson knew it; he was angry with himself for letting his habit get the best of him yet again but his pride kept him from humbly admitting so.
no subject
"I assume you expect such rash, impetuous, and wholly irresponsible acts to come from myself. And I indulge in them quite frequently, as you are more than aware, but that is my way. My way has yet, to date, cost us the rent for three months running," says Sherlock, plucking away, his foul disposition given away only by the shrill notes ringing out through the flat.
"Thankfully, I am not completely incapable of using charms to procure favors," said Sherlock. "I have spent the morning assuring Mrs. Hudson that she will have her rent by tomorrow."
He did not mention that it also required him to put his own case on hold in order to do legwork for his brother.
"But that does not change the fact that I will be keeping your checkbook locked away. Don't try to break into it, I'll know if you do."
excuse the delay!
Yet he still had no plans for humility.
"As I said, it won't be necessary," he said, stubborn as ever. "I refuse to come begging permission for my own things. Besides, what would you do if you did catch me breaking into it? Report me to Scotland Yard for stealing from myself?"
No worries!
His jaw clenched, and he reminded himself to keep calm and rational. Rational thinking seemed to be of little use to him at the moment, it was rarely of use to him when it came to the good doctor; his friend. It left him feeling out of sorts at the best of times. He turned to face his companion.
"How else do you propose I handle the situation then? If you have any ideas of merit, I am quite open to hearing them, as I am at a loss."
no subject
His words, a mere product of his anger, were meaningless and he knew it. He was far more likely to simply lose any money he owed Holmes, along with the next month's rent and then some, if he were left on his own.
no subject
His fingers itched with his agitation, and he wanted to pick up his violin and play something that might relieve him of foreign and unpleasant feeling. His face remained stoic, impassive, unwilling to betray the turmoil surging through him. Those feelings would do him little good, and it was not his way to give into them.
WOW if i ever forget about this like that again you have full permission to smack me
He was losing this argument and fast. There was but little ammunition left for him to use against Holmes and whatever remained was reaching, but he was still determined to fight on.
"Most of what you do is disagreeable. You're a terrible tenant and flatmate," he went on. "You... you shoot the walls, you never clean... But when, when have I ever confiscated anything of yours?"
No, never. <3
"What do you propose to do with your checkbook, should I deem it necessary to relinquish it?"
He reminded himself to keep his voice calm, and tried to silence the sudden flood of emotion-fueled thoughts that threatened to burst forth from his mouth. He imagined, especially considering what the good doctor had just tried to use as ammunition, that this must be the exact sort of feeling he must feel when dealing with himself.
It was a loathsome feeling which curled through his being entirely, and he found he could not dislodge it by simply refusing to acknowledge it. He clasped his hands in front of him, as if it would dispel the itching to do that seemed to have rooted itself in his fingers.
"Yes, I am, but you-you have counselled me on my errant behavior on more than one occasion. You have confiscated my experiments. You have found ways to force me out into the world, which I have very little use of unless I find myself with a case, so do not try and tell me that you have never done anything similar as to what I am doing to you now."
He had not yet realized that his voice had risen, threatening to break his calm facade.
"And while I am a terrible tenant and flatmate, according to your observations over the past months, none of my vices have threatened to cost us our home."