Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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kore_logs2012-11-26 07:51 pm
could_be_dangerous) wrote in kore_logs2012-11-26 07:51 pm
Entry tags:
with folded arms, you occupied the bench like toothache
Who: Sherlock Holmes, Lydia Martin
Where: Library
What: Ego showdown? Awkward friendship? STAY TUNED.
Warnings: Probably none.
Kenzi does keep telling Sherlock that he needs to get out more, which normally would be enough to keep him locked up indoors for the rest of his days, but she's not entirely wrong. Or, at least, he'd rather peel his own skin off than stay in here a moment longer with nothing to do but sit up in the attic and watch or attempt to devise other despicably low-tech ways of foiling their captors.
The point is, he's bored, and there's absolutely nothing to do that might help -- certainly not reading, but the library is right across the street and doesn't seem to be a popular locale, which minimises his chances of being seen or having to deal with anyone else at all, a pleasing prospect.
There are, of course, the usual library denizens. The girl, for instance, the one who'd wanted to meet with him and who he has therefore summarily been avoiding. At least she isn't likely to recognise him as long as he doesn't open his mouth. That gives him some small feeling of security as he wanders through the shelves, occasionally pausing to run the tip of one long finger across the spine of a book. Libraries. The last time he'd been in a library was--
Was not worth dwelling on. Delete-- no. Never that. But put it aside for now.
Still, the feel of them under his fingertips is familiar, grounding, even if the titles all look incurably dull, even once he's slipped out of the fiction section. Perhaps not a terrible idea, this. It won't cure his boredom, but it does make him feel less like blowing something up. Himself, perhaps.
Where: Library
What: Ego showdown? Awkward friendship? STAY TUNED.
Warnings: Probably none.
Kenzi does keep telling Sherlock that he needs to get out more, which normally would be enough to keep him locked up indoors for the rest of his days, but she's not entirely wrong. Or, at least, he'd rather peel his own skin off than stay in here a moment longer with nothing to do but sit up in the attic and watch or attempt to devise other despicably low-tech ways of foiling their captors.
The point is, he's bored, and there's absolutely nothing to do that might help -- certainly not reading, but the library is right across the street and doesn't seem to be a popular locale, which minimises his chances of being seen or having to deal with anyone else at all, a pleasing prospect.
There are, of course, the usual library denizens. The girl, for instance, the one who'd wanted to meet with him and who he has therefore summarily been avoiding. At least she isn't likely to recognise him as long as he doesn't open his mouth. That gives him some small feeling of security as he wanders through the shelves, occasionally pausing to run the tip of one long finger across the spine of a book. Libraries. The last time he'd been in a library was--
Was not worth dwelling on. Delete-- no. Never that. But put it aside for now.
Still, the feel of them under his fingertips is familiar, grounding, even if the titles all look incurably dull, even once he's slipped out of the fiction section. Perhaps not a terrible idea, this. It won't cure his boredom, but it does make him feel less like blowing something up. Himself, perhaps.
no subject
Yes, his expression says. Possibly. Elaborate, then go away.
At least he's the height and the reach for the task at hand. It makes her approach somewhat more reasonable, if no more desirable. Hopefully that'll be all she wants. The leaning and the smile suggest as much, that he's intended to serve some small purpose and she's attempting to bait him to do so. Never mind that it's thick, never mind that anyone with eyes ought to be able to see he's not the sort to be remotely intrigued by flirtation.
It ought to be obvious enough now, anyway, with the way he gives her a distant, cursory once-over and turns back to the bookshelf, poring over the titles, authors, looking for anyone or anything he recognises, anything that might be worth reading. There's little enough here, but at least his disinterest ought to keep her from seeking out conversation.
no subject
She's not sure if he speaks English, or speaks at all. He obviously understands, or he wouldn't be looking like that. Come on. How much charm does she have to-- And then he just turns back to the books?
The smile vanishes and Lydia marches over to him. "I'm asking for a small favour, here. I just need that book. It's not like I'm going to take you out back and steal a kidney!"
It's not that she's mad that he's ignoring her. She's mad that he's ignoring her while she's using a well-practiced act that has only failed her twice before! Once was on Danny before she knew, and the second time was with Bruce. That one still had her slightly confused, but she prefers the relationship they have now.
no subject
"Shame. That would've been far less dull." And there goes the not speaking. The truth is that Sherlock can't quite help himself. He's never been particularly good at keeping his mouth shut, particularly when he ought to, and right now?
Right now he's something... abhorrent, something possibly akin to lonely, which is a despicable state in which to be. Uncharacteristic, not what he is, but Sherlock does know the source. The cause of it all. Who to blame.
John Watson. Obviously.
Before John loneliness hadn't been something in which Sherlock had let himself indulge, not once he'd grown old enough to know that it was simply his lot in life, and that this was in the end preferable. It had all been fine, all been well, this... dooming himself to a short and exciting life, it suited him, it was comfortable. Wasn't it?
And then John had ruined it all, walked into the space and the time which Sherlock himself occupied and filled it up with himself. Had become a constant, a comfort, an iron lung, and Sherlock had permitted himself to become complacent. He'd let companionship become this need, this necessity, and enough time has passed that he's forgotten how to be without it.
So he speaks. Gives up. It'd already begun to itch at the inside of his skull anyway, having words and being unable to use them.
no subject
A slow smile spreads across her face as she holds the book to her chest. The animosity fades, replaced with admiration and amusement. "Photography guy. You've been avoiding me."
He wasn't getting away now. She takes a step forward, smile still in place, "It's nice to finally meet you."
no subject
As it is so obviously accidental, he's going to carry on paying more overt attention to the books than to her. Ideally she'll get the hint and leave, though he doesn't expect as much. When has he ever been so lucky?
"In fact, I've been avoiding everyone, and would dearly like to carry on doing so, so if you wouldn't mind going away now you've got your book, that would be lovely. Even if you do mind, this is a terrible selection of books and I'd wager the lot of them are still more interesting than anything you could possibly have to say to me, so it's best to save us both the trouble and leave now." So no, in short, he's really not a people person, nor is he keen on conversation -- though of course one might wonder why, if he truly doesn't care to speak, he's carrying on doing so.
no subject
"If you wanted to continue avoiding me, you wouldn't have started this conversation. I could have taken the book and been on my way. You opened your mouth. I'd ask why, but it's obvious." Another step forward. She's right next to him, leaning against the shelf. If anyone could see through acidic words meant to drive someone away to the core of what they really mean, it's Lydia. She could hear a covered-up cry for help from a million miles away.
"You're lonely."
no subject
"Very clever, very astute, your statement of the bloody obvious." Sherlock pulls a book down from the shelf and leafs through it for a few seconds before making a noise of irritation and shoving it back into its place on the shelf. Old news. Already known.
"You have made one small oversight though. One little thing, hardly significant. If you're an idiot. Have you spotted it?" He looks over at her, a cold smile on his lips.
"No? I know it's been all of thirty seconds, plenty of time to forget that you started the conversation. Oh, I could've failed to respond, and did, in fact, which, as you might by some miracle recall only made you more persistent. Continuing to be intransigent would only have attracted more attention to myself, so." So.
"You see, I was right. You don't have anything interesting to say. Youth is hardly an excuse. One would think that a person with such a thirst for knowledge might have learned something, somewhere, but apparently not. Perhaps it's different in California; perhaps one reads simply to stock up on memorable quotes to quip at one's schoolmates. Of course, you've already noticed that smiling and draping yourself over the scenery is more likely to produce a favorable result. Not surprising that you open with that, though you really ought to learn to read your targets first. Nothing is universal. Some might react unfavourably." Like Sherlock himself, for instance.
no subject
How did he know about California? Probably the same way she'd first assumed they were on the East Coast. Details. Observation. Clearly he'd mastered the art of reading targets.
It was infuriatingly impressive. Part of her wanted to just walk away and leave him with his own thoughts. But another part of her wanted to know more.
"You're still talking. Breakdown how you got California, because there should only be three people that know anything about me." With the exception of Bruce, but he didn't have all the details like the others did.
no subject
Especially not now, now that he's mentioned the rest. "Your accent, incidentally. Idiom usage. Quality of skin and hair secondary factors. Manner of dress. All quite elementary."
Equally mediocre, but that goes without saying, at this point. Still, he can see that she's ruffled, which amuses him greatly. It's been ages since he's had a halfway decent argument with anyone; perhaps she'll deliver.
"I also know that you're used to getting what you want, keen on it, willing to use other people for your own ends -- and no doubt you question why you shouldn't, if you're so much cleverer than they are, if you're capable. If you think of it at all." There the similarities, if there are any, are likely to end. She's not mad. Not like Sherlock is. An advantage in most senses, surely, but a disadvantage in plenty. That under discussion only one of many.
"Other things. Obvious. Why you come here. Why you opt to make yourself appear as normal and as empty headed as possible on first meeting. None of that is very interesting either."
no subject
No, she wouldn't have. Not now. Everything he's saying is both fascinating and enraging her. Ruffled is putting it lightly. She purses her lips, turning her body away just slightly, and looks him over a little more intently.
"I wasn't put on this Earth to keep you interested. I have more important things to do than listen to a pompous shut in and social outcast tell me why I'm not normal." Ah... he'd hit a nerve with that one. She lifts her head and stands a little straighter.
"Only a boring person can be bored. Maybe you're the one with the problem."
no subject
He pulls another book down from the shelf, turning and leaning back against it as he rifles disinterestedly through the pages. "As, incidentally, do ad-hoc, ad hominem attacks predicated on little more than the inevitable chafing one sustains when one's skin is so very thin. Surely you can do better than that. It was infantile." He wrinkles his nose and gives a sweeping gesture of the hand.
"And speaking of, you might now have been born for the sole purpose of entertaining me, no, but I wasn't born to present myself and converse with you upon demand either." Something to think about, perhaps. Likely not, if she's at all like Sherlock is.
"The intended subject of which, incidentally, you've still yet to present."
no subject
Lydia manages to erase any trace of anger from her face and puts her usual mask in place. Lydia Martin doesn't give a fuck. At least, not on the outside. She turns away from him, twirling her hair around her finger, and quickly switches tactics. It's amazing how fast she can go from confrontational to infuriatingly sarcastic and mildly manipulative.
"Fine. Since I'm so boring and you're so unwilling to talk, I'll just take my theories elsewhere. I'm sure Party would be able to provide some excellent insight into what this place really is and how to get home. Or maybe I'll even ask Dean! So many brilliant mines to consult with, so little time. I'm sure someone else will be interested in figuring out an exist strategy."
She starts walking away, back to her table. Slowly. With much hair flipping.