I declare a holiday, fall asleep, drift away
Who: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Kenzi
When: Sunday
Where: 20A
Summary: And there was much pouting.
Rating: R, just to be safe.
Warnings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Kenzi.
Sunday mornings were always distressing, but Sherlock had to admit when he was conscious enough to admit it that he'd never experienced anything quite as disorienting as waking up not only alone, but by bouncing off the bloody ceiling. Upside-down. His stomach dropped out instinctively in anticipation of the fall that never came. He only drifted, a sort of slow downwards meandering that left him out of range of anything to grab hold of to direct himself and therefore nothing to do but wait. It would almost be peaceful in a sleepy, surreal sort of way were it not for the fact that John was absolutely, definitely gone -- which was testament to how accustomed he'd become to this place. Floating? Fine, right, good. John being missing, however...
Sherlock swallowed down his worry, looking about for his communicator. It had to be floating about somewhere, along with the bedsheets and stray food bars and pens and... everything. Essentially everything. That would be easy enough to take care of -- he was certain he could rig a sort of container using the bedsheets and the bed itself without too much difficulty -- but it was certainly wildly inconvenient when one actually had to find something in particular.
Coming within range of the bed was merciful. Sherlock reached out to grasp it, pulling himself hand over hand to the edge so that he could push off towards the wall, adding a bit of a twist so that, hopefully, he'd impact the wall with his back instead of his face. His communicator had been on the desk. It had to be nearby. Getting there would just take a bit of... bouncing. Bouncing and not getting tangled up in floating bedsheets, which turned out to be far more difficult than it had any right to be.
When: Sunday
Where: 20A
Summary: And there was much pouting.
Rating: R, just to be safe.
Warnings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Kenzi.
Sunday mornings were always distressing, but Sherlock had to admit when he was conscious enough to admit it that he'd never experienced anything quite as disorienting as waking up not only alone, but by bouncing off the bloody ceiling. Upside-down. His stomach dropped out instinctively in anticipation of the fall that never came. He only drifted, a sort of slow downwards meandering that left him out of range of anything to grab hold of to direct himself and therefore nothing to do but wait. It would almost be peaceful in a sleepy, surreal sort of way were it not for the fact that John was absolutely, definitely gone -- which was testament to how accustomed he'd become to this place. Floating? Fine, right, good. John being missing, however...
Sherlock swallowed down his worry, looking about for his communicator. It had to be floating about somewhere, along with the bedsheets and stray food bars and pens and... everything. Essentially everything. That would be easy enough to take care of -- he was certain he could rig a sort of container using the bedsheets and the bed itself without too much difficulty -- but it was certainly wildly inconvenient when one actually had to find something in particular.
Coming within range of the bed was merciful. Sherlock reached out to grasp it, pulling himself hand over hand to the edge so that he could push off towards the wall, adding a bit of a twist so that, hopefully, he'd impact the wall with his back instead of his face. His communicator had been on the desk. It had to be nearby. Getting there would just take a bit of... bouncing. Bouncing and not getting tangled up in floating bedsheets, which turned out to be far more difficult than it had any right to be.