[RL: Maggie and Sherlock] My body is a cage... but my mind holds the key

[sure_lock]

The initial rush of energy that follows the injection of cocaine had settled into a low thrumming of malaise. Violin resting over the top of his knees where he had rested it after sitting in his favorite chair, Sherlock was not so much reveling in the amalgamation of restlessness and paranoia the crest of the high brought him but wallowing

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[h4ck3r_61rl]

Maggie wasn't terribly accustomed to dealing with situations such as this, but as far as she was concerted, he was a friend, if one that she didn't know very well yet. Let it be known that Maggie was one to step through time and space for such people; and as she was dropped off from the hop, she wobbled and leaned against the door in an attempt to keep from emptying herself of lunch. She hated world hops with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns, but yet still continued to do it, when necessary.

Chewing on a piece of dark chocolate (it helped settle her stomach for some unknown reason), she stepped through the door that was, true to his word, unlatched. She could faintly hear music, and she followed the sound until she found him. Not wanting to disturb him quite yet (at least he was upright and awake), she folded her arms and watched for several minutes before coughing politely (likely the most gracious gesture she is capable of, but who's really counting?).

[sure_lock]

The fervor in which he had been playing previously was gone, replaced with just a languid need to just express... something, somehow. The song was not terribly loud, and it ended with an abrupt wail of the wronged string protesting his sudden movements. Blinking a few times as he continued to stare out the window, Sherlock turned toward the noise that interrupted him.

Face settling into a distinctly blank look, his fairly young features were already gaining lines around them. "Maggie," Sherlock said, tongue suddenly leaden and proving hard for him to eloquently loose her name from his lips. "Sit, please." He just had been silent long enough to have to get his voice working again properly. Gesturing to the couch with his bow, trembling coming back, he stuck his arm back to his side quickly to hide it.

[h4ck3r_61rl]

She could certainly understand that need, though her ways of expressing herself usually ended with her yelling at Tommy. Looking at him, she dropped her arms with a tiny sigh. She blinked at him, ignoring his request in order to take a step closer to him; eyes drifting towards the window once before resettling on him. It was weird being here; this was not only a different world (though it didn't look so different from her own, Larsa's definitely had), it was a different time. It was like stepping back into the pages of a book. She almost laughed at that, wasn't that exactly what she was doing?

"Are you okay?" Her Australian accent was thick, though by no means was she difficult to understand. The concern on her face and in her voice was fairly evident. She didn't pity the man, instead, there was a sudden and empty feeling deep within her, and while she wasn't in his situation, she understood the feeling of loss.

[sure_lock]

His posture straightened considerably when she stepped closer to him, if only because it was his natural reaction to people in close proximity. Shifting his shoulders to roll forward, to relax at the very least, his glassy gray eyes looked over her once, twice, before settling on her face. He could see her vague discomfort, felt it reciprocated in his own body.

Her accent was not difficult to understand at all - his own was a bit cockneyed, altogether a London accent with subtle thrush influence. Maggie's concern transcended far past her voice, and however foreign that was to Sherlock, he took that bit of empathy and held it close. "The euphoria is dying, as am I inside," the drugs tended to make him pontificate a little too much for his own liking, and he really had no control over what his mind told his tongue to tell her.