Men seldom, never deliberately, rebel against anything that does not deserve rebelling against

[technophantom]

WHO: sh_consulting and technophantom
WHERE: Sherlock's apartment
WHEN: Tuesday, January 3
WARNINGS: Weirdos
SUMMARY: Ghost pays a visit to Sherlock. Lots of talking ensues and no cars explode or even flip once.
FORMAT: Probably para.

Comments

[sh_consulting]

Sherlock was alone. He was standing, back to the window, violin on his shoulder and under his chin. He would play a few bars, pause, lower his bow, and then speak. "No, the diamond theft just isn't worth my time. It was obviously the niece - all you had to do was look at inner seam of her trouser leg." Then he would play more. It had been going on like this for an hour, or more, as Sherlock slowly destroyed every last case he had been contacted with in the last week, the song he was playing (or apparently composing) growing more melancholy as it went.

"I simply don't see the point in wasting my time. And don't tell me to simply take whatever I can simply because I have no cases."

[technophantom]

The saboteur spent several seconds just watching, suit analyzing the silent words. The lenses flickered bright red and then faded off, as he ducked in through the wall and peered at Sherlock. No visible bluetooth.

"Who are you speaking to?"

[sh_consulting]

Sherlock turned immediately at the voice, and then relaxed visibly when he saw ghost - small white notes instantly appearing around the man, notating every difference since he'd last saw him. Every new mud stain, ever new, small piece of wear on the suit. Sherlock lowered the violin.

"John, obviously," as if the question was one of the most boring he'd heard that day. He turned to the chair, lips parting as if he was about to say something, and then snapping shut when he realized it was empty.

"Oh. He must have left. When did he do that?"

[technophantom]

Ghost ran a quick test on the composite materials of the air inside the room, making sure there wasn't a gas leak, and then tilted his head. "I don't know."

The words above his head intrigued him more--he glanced down at himself briefly to note he had in fact spilled spaghetti sauce on himself and had lost an estimated three pounds off an already painfully slim frame (but whatever, it's not like that really mattered).

"Accurate. Is this a manifestation of your observations? ...It may hinder your future reproductive success."