(no subject)

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

[Broke into your home. So what?]

Comments

[a_time_slip]

I would suggest you leave, and drop anything you've taken.

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

Haven't taken a thing. [He has his hands up and a charming (fake) smile on his face.]

[a_time_slip]

Yeah, yeah, I'll believe that after the authorities arrive. [She's not intending on calling anyone, but does have a weapon aimed in his direction]

Why are you here? There's nothing of value.

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

You're not going to call the police. [It's not a threat, or any attempt at coercion- he just knows it. If she'd intended to, she would have done it by now and she hasn't. His hands remain up.] I'm not here to steal.

[a_time_slip]

[She lowers the weapon, though very suspicious] Why're you here, then? Who sent you?

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

I really look like someone sent me?

Feel free to ignore but I couldn't resist!

[chesstotem]

[She walks in and bolts the door behind her before heading straight to the bed. She pulls out from under it a silver case - she's keeping it safe for Arthur for a while, and hell if she's going to turn down an opportunity to use it while he's out on business.

She opens it, deftly setting the dosage and the timer, and expertly yanking a fresh IV cord out. Lying on the bed, fully-clothed, she sticks a pair of ear buds in her ears and inserts the IV into her wrist. She's out cold in seconds, with twenty minutes on the timer.]

:D

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

[His interest is pricked the moment that the needle comes out. For a moment he thinks- assumes, actually, and he feels a little annoyed at himself for that- it has to be some kind of illegal drug.

But this is much better, really, isn't it? He notes the timer, guesses that he has twenty minutes before she wakes up. Good. He can do a lot in twenty minutes. 'A lot', in this case, meaning slinking out of his hiding place and, as gently as he can, checking her pulse, her breathing, the relaxation of her muscles, noting the flicker of her eyelids- dreaming. He had been right. Then onto the machine itself, the chemical currently flowing through her veins- he wonders how best to get a sample.]

[chesstotem]

[She doesn't wake - it'd take a pretty good shake, or cutting off the flow of the drug entirely to wake her up before the timer runs out.

There are a couple of extra vials stored along one side of the case, but of course an entire missing vial of Somnacin would attract a lot of attention - good luck figuring that one out, Sherlock.

Inside the dream, Ariadne is building, of course. It's a practice exercise, yes, but she's also working on her own subconscious security. Locking away the important things, the things she can't have escaping while on a job, the things her colleages don't ever get to know, unintentionally or otherwise.

Apparently she cares more about that, than she does the locks on her front door.]

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

[Sherlock's not planning on waking her. But for the Somnacin problem- luckily for him, he's in the habit of carrying around air-tight, water-tight specimen bottles. They never fail to come in handy, as they do now. His gloved fingers work swiftly, decanting a tiny amount from each bottle so their contents remains equal and only very slightly depleted- it's not much, but it will do. Into the pocket with that, then, and the vials are carefully arranged back in their places.

He considers leaving. Honestly does. But he's sure he could question her just fine like this- and study the after-affects of the drug. If she's woozy or disorientated, then so much the better.

To that end, then, he leans against her wall with his arms folded and waits, excitement running in jolts up his spine but his body perfectly still.]

[chesstotem]

[What's only twenty minutes for Sherlock is four hours for Ariadne, running around in her own mind, building tricks and mazes, trying to create things even she could get lost in.

Building her fortress, in an unassuming apartment building on an unassuming street in the Quartier Latin in Paris.

Eventually, though, the timer hits ten seconds, and Sherlock might hear the faint sounds of Edith Piaf's warbling in the earbuds she'd stuck in her ears. She only uses the musical countdown like this to make sure she has enough time to wrap things up before she wakes.

She wakes almost instantly when the timer hits zero, eyes a little bleary with sleep (or maybe the drug, but she's pretty used to it by now).

Of course, seeing a man in her apartment, not Arthur (who has a key), when she expected to be alone makes her yell in surprise, yanking the IV out of her wrist and scrambling for her bag on the floor.] What the hell?

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

Interesting. Very interesting. [He pushes away from the wall and rests a hand on the PASIV, flashing her a brittle, cold smile.] Tell me. Drugs? [Though he knows it's not.] How disappointing. I find them terribly boring. [An utter lie.] Really, I'd thought you were cleverer than that. [He's banking on her wanting to correct him so much that she lets some of the real truth slip.]

[bravediogenes.livejournal.com]

You're not meant to be in here.

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

[Oh no, not a child. Sherlock arches an eyebrow at him, deciding not to patronise him with niceties and heading straight for sarcasm.] No. Perceptive deduction.

[bravediogenes.livejournal.com]

[Coming across a strange man in his house would normally frighten him, but not after that little barb. Diogenes fixes Sherlock with a cold look, one that's a little too advanced for a seven-year-old.] If you wish to wander in strange buildings, I'm sure the authorities would be perfectly happy to escort you to the sheriff's office.

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

You know, I'm sure they would. They do tend to be eager when it comes to persecuting me.

[bravediogenes.livejournal.com]

How messianic of you. Perhaps I should apologize, I didn't realize I was in the company of a martyr.

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

Only to the crushing tedium of normal life, but do feel free to apologise as much as you like.

About to go to bed v soon, but just had to.

[imaspecialist.livejournal.com]

You know if you'd wanted to see me, you could have just asked.

BB! <333

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

[There's a quiet bang as Sherlock hops down from the window sill, and proceeds to dust off his jacket. He's got a smile on his face that's rakish in one light and chilling in another, and yes- that is a gun in his pocket.] Tedious, don't you think?

Voice testing! So sorry :@

[soconventional.livejournal.com]

[Arriving home from work later than he'd really like, Lestrade tosses his keys and the heavy folder tucked beneath his arm on to the coffee table, completely oblivious to the fact that his house has been broken into. After all, not everyone can be on top form when it's approaching one in the morning and the only things keeping you awake are a dangerous amount of caffeine and sheer strength of will.]

[Or, at least, that'll be his excuse when he finally does realize he has an unwelcome guest. For now, though, he's far too busy flopping on to the sofa and loosening the knot of his tie to notice.]

Never apologise 8D

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

[Which is when Sherlock appears from his kitchen. Cup of tea in hand. Yes- he broke in and made tea. Why wouldn't he?

The first thing his eyes are drawn to (aside from the state of Lestrade's shoes, his route home clearly written on them) is naturally the file.] The Keeley murder? It was the aunt. You didn't pay attention to the passport photos. Not terribly difficult, I only had to see the news report to know.

[soconventional.livejournal.com]

[For one brief, heart-stopping moment Lestrade thinks he's being burgled. Properly. Perhaps by someone in a balaclava and holding a large hammer. He looks less than impressed to find it's only Sherlock armed with a mug of tea.] That's illegal, you know. Breaking and entering. If it wasn't more trouble than it's worth, I'd be within my rights to drag you down the station.

[notapsychopath.livejournal.com]

Mm. Except I wouldn't be much use in prison, would I? [Have a nasty smile. Because you need him more than he annoys you.]

[soconventional.livejournal.com]

[And, God, does Lestrade know it. Which is why, with only a brief glower in Sherlock's direction, he grudgingly leans forward to flip open the folder on the table, flicking through the first few pages.] What was that about passports?