[Sherlock shakes his head -- not in denial of what the boy is saying, but at the whole situation.]
...it is -- faked.
[As he says this, he's looking around at the kitchen, taking it in through the unfocused haze in his brain.
Nothing here is really new. The doorknobs are smudged, the floor is clean but shows signs of wear, the spatula Leo is using has little dents from exposure to heat, the plates have scratches....
It could be artificially produced. But it would take a great deal of time and effort, and -- why? Why would anyone go to that effort? What is the purpose, the point?
It feels like thinking through molasses. That damned drug John has been giving him -- it's still in his system, still affecting him, only Sherlock's starting to feel the lack of it. Dizziness, failure to focus, aches in his limbs and his gut, all very unpleasant sensations that leave him sweating and ill.
Sherlock sinks into a chair at the table, leaning forward, propping his elbows on the table and resting his face in his hands.]
...it must be. Or someone else lived here -- for, for some time. It can't be real, I know it isn't.
[He knows what is real. What is real is Baker Street, and John Watson, typing away at the table while Sherlock sleeps. What is real is logic, and reason, and scientific explanation -- and, occasionally, very specific horrors from the deep ocean and deathless worlds of dead planets and dying stars that a careless man might stumble into if he gets too close.
They felt so real.
This feels so real.
But Jon had also felt real, and so had the ash that barred him from entering the rooms of Stonewood Manor until he already had an idea of what lay beyond.
At least the kid is sharp. If he's got to have a companion in this madness, it might as well be a boy who knows what to look for.]
What else have you noticed?
[He's not looking at the dog. The dog is at best not his dog, and at worst, not real at all.]
no subject
...it is -- faked.
[As he says this, he's looking around at the kitchen, taking it in through the unfocused haze in his brain.
Nothing here is really new. The doorknobs are smudged, the floor is clean but shows signs of wear, the spatula Leo is using has little dents from exposure to heat, the plates have scratches....
It could be artificially produced. But it would take a great deal of time and effort, and -- why? Why would anyone go to that effort? What is the purpose, the point?
It feels like thinking through molasses. That damned drug John has been giving him -- it's still in his system, still affecting him, only Sherlock's starting to feel the lack of it. Dizziness, failure to focus, aches in his limbs and his gut, all very unpleasant sensations that leave him sweating and ill.
Sherlock sinks into a chair at the table, leaning forward, propping his elbows on the table and resting his face in his hands.]
...it must be. Or someone else lived here -- for, for some time. It can't be real, I know it isn't.
[He knows what is real. What is real is Baker Street, and John Watson, typing away at the table while Sherlock sleeps. What is real is logic, and reason, and scientific explanation -- and, occasionally, very specific horrors from the deep ocean and deathless worlds of dead planets and dying stars that a careless man might stumble into if he gets too close.
They felt so real.
This feels so real.
But Jon had also felt real, and so had the ash that barred him from entering the rooms of Stonewood Manor until he already had an idea of what lay beyond.
At least the kid is sharp. If he's got to have a companion in this madness, it might as well be a boy who knows what to look for.]
What else have you noticed?
[He's not looking at the dog. The dog is at best not his dog, and at worst, not real at all.]