You tossed a blanket from the bed...
Who: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
When: Friday.
Where: Biodome, at least initially.
Summary: Sherlock's been roughing it. Sleep has been in short supply and exhaustion has finally caught up with him.
Rating: Never can tell with these two. Generally safest to assume R or so.
Warnings: Possible grumpiness, dudes all over other dudes, the usual.
/ You curled the papers from your hair,
/ Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
/ In the palms of both soiled hands.'>Sherlock hadn't meant to fall asleep. It was inevitable that he would eventually; stupid of him to have let himself rest. The only sleep he'd managed to get over the past few days had been stolen in short bursts, little naps taken under bushes, wrapped around his bag of supplies. All told, over the last three days, he probably hadn't gotten more than four or five hours out of it, each attempt ending with him waking suddenly, tense and still, at some noise, or starting awake in a cold sweat at the merciful termination of some nightmare. Regardless the method, it always ended with Sherlock sitting up the rest of the night, bleary-eyed, with leaves in his hair, and whittling away at his improvised fire piston. It was coming along nicely, which was rather a problem. Soon he'd be out of things to do. He thought that maybe he'd make another for John, leave it at his door as a gift. Just a gift, nothing more. Something useful. Might as well.
Friday morning saw him wandering, sneaking into a suite to make use of its shower as he'd been doing for the past several days, cleaning himself with the slow, meticulous care of a man who had nothing else to do. His clothes followed. And then it was back to the Biodome to wander and to think, which took him to now, laying on his back on the grass with his bag under his head as a pillow, fast asleep. He'd only mean to lay still a while and think, try to remember the feeling of sun on his skin, try to imagine insects crawling in the unnaturally clean grass and pretend that he was home. Certainly not doze off, as he had done, his face unlined and relaxed in sleep. It was negligent. Unsafe. When he woke up he'd no doubt be very angry with himself for it.
When: Friday.
Where: Biodome, at least initially.
Summary: Sherlock's been roughing it. Sleep has been in short supply and exhaustion has finally caught up with him.
Rating: Never can tell with these two. Generally safest to assume R or so.
Warnings: Possible grumpiness, dudes all over other dudes, the usual.
/ You curled the papers from your hair,
/ Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
/ In the palms of both soiled hands.'>Sherlock hadn't meant to fall asleep. It was inevitable that he would eventually; stupid of him to have let himself rest. The only sleep he'd managed to get over the past few days had been stolen in short bursts, little naps taken under bushes, wrapped around his bag of supplies. All told, over the last three days, he probably hadn't gotten more than four or five hours out of it, each attempt ending with him waking suddenly, tense and still, at some noise, or starting awake in a cold sweat at the merciful termination of some nightmare. Regardless the method, it always ended with Sherlock sitting up the rest of the night, bleary-eyed, with leaves in his hair, and whittling away at his improvised fire piston. It was coming along nicely, which was rather a problem. Soon he'd be out of things to do. He thought that maybe he'd make another for John, leave it at his door as a gift. Just a gift, nothing more. Something useful. Might as well.
Friday morning saw him wandering, sneaking into a suite to make use of its shower as he'd been doing for the past several days, cleaning himself with the slow, meticulous care of a man who had nothing else to do. His clothes followed. And then it was back to the Biodome to wander and to think, which took him to now, laying on his back on the grass with his bag under his head as a pillow, fast asleep. He'd only mean to lay still a while and think, try to remember the feeling of sun on his skin, try to imagine insects crawling in the unnaturally clean grass and pretend that he was home. Certainly not doze off, as he had done, his face unlined and relaxed in sleep. It was negligent. Unsafe. When he woke up he'd no doubt be very angry with himself for it.