PSL: Lockbell

[thecitysgain]

There was a time Marcus would've appreciated a quiet Friday night. He'd grab a beer, take the chance to catch up on his tv shows, and relish the fact that for once he could get a full night's sleep. But he's had a few too many full nights of sleep since...well, you know when. It's kind of lost its charm.

He flicks idly through the tv, trying to find something that isn't the racist lady with the butter obsession or one of the ten million Law & Orders. Taking a sip of his milk, he settles for America's Next Top Model.

Comments

[cases]

Sherlock's mind over the past few days has been awash with hypotheticals, counterfactual histories that he has discerned for himself. there are a myriad of ways in which he could have stopped the event that led to a bullet in Detective Bell's abdomen, and the subsequent nerve damage of the L4 and L5 vertebrae. He could have been more understanding. Less arrogant. He could have been discreet, or compassionate, or any of the many things that he was not at that moment. Could have, would have, should have. Sherlock is a man who sees details, he is obsessed with them. He understands all of the small facts about Bell's damaged nerve tissue, but this time, he sees the person instead. A competent detective, far above the rest. A -- friend. He would have liked that. A year ago he would have scoffed at the idea.

He has been to Bell's apartment before, clearing him of planted evidence for a murder that he did not commit. Sherlock has not been invited over tonight, but he comes anyway, imposing because his mind will not shut off. He often refrains from sleep, it's a habitual thing. But not to the extent that he has over the past few weeks. His arms ache from the amount of single stick he has practiced in that time.

Still, Sherlock isn't sure what he expects from this visit, even as he knocks on the door. Forgiveness, perhaps. An exoneration of his sins. He is a man that usually has everything figured out. Right now, he has nothing at all.

[thecitysgain]

Sherlock is, quite honestly, the last person Marcus expects to see when he opens the door.

"What are you doing here."

He's a little impressed with how calm he sounds, considering he feels like a stone has been dropped in his belly. Or maybe a snake. Slimy, slithering, sickening tendrils of anger, frustration, fear, and pleasure, all knotted up inside, hissing. The pleasure is the worst part. Marcus is perfectly comfortable with being angry, but it's humiliating to admit -- even just to himself -- that he's glad to see the other man. That there's something a little thrilling about having the "world's greatest detective" chase after him.