milliways_bar | (no subject)

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After his recent conversation with Sherlock, Jim is in a very strange mood. Sort of angry, sort of excited, a little bit sad and a whole lot frustrated. This is why he can be found in front of the Observation Window today, looking at it practically upside-down - he's pulled a sofa over and sprawled on it, his head hanging over the side to get the view he wants. His phone sends Bach through his earbuds, his favourite, and there's a lot of black coffee half-drunk on the table next to him. Ugh, it's going to be one of those days.

[OOC: Plotlocked to X, say thankya! Now posted on 100% the correct day. I know when Sunday is, you can't say I don't. You're not my real mom.]

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The flame has already been and gone. He's thinking about Sherlock now, and a smile touches his lips. That bed sheet, though. The way he pretended to be calm. And he took his cigarette like a good boy.

Irene Adler will have finished with her princess by the time he gets back. Mycroft Holmes will be sitting in Whitehall. Allll the pieces in place...and he's sitting in a bloody forest, on a blanket with cartoon characters on it. Maybe burning the stables wasn't worth it...

...but then he sees Harry Percy's face, and that thought disappears. Totally worth it.

X nudges his foot with hers.

"You are thinking."

'Yeah, you haven't really told me how not to.'

He has tried it before, you know. Not meditation, but turning his brain off. Guess what? It doesn't work, ever, and he would like it to sometimes.

'Flame flame flame flame. Flaaaaame. Hey, did you know that London nearly burned allll the way down in a fire, once? 1666. It must have been quite a sight.'

Jim's not a pyromaniac, and only an arsonist when a plan calls for it or he's planting bombs to flirt with Sherlock. But if people here want to believe it here, it's fine.

"San Francisco burned, too. And Chicago."

X is just saying.

"And Washington, D.C. But that was Canadians."

What?

"I did tell you. Sit. Breathe. Think of a flame. Burn your thoughts."

Beat.

"It is okay not to be. For a little while."

'Yeah, I don't want to.'

Not gonna, can't make him. He opens his eyes, and leans back on his elbows.

'Let's do something else, I'm bored.'

"I do not care."

This is true.

"Another hour. Of trying. Then you will fertilize the beds for planting. In the greenhouse."

Beat.

"You can sleep in the cells. For a week."

X will be watching. So will Baby.

'...God, you're a pain in the arse.'

Which, he realises, is the point. Still. Annoying!

He doesn't care where he sleeps though, and he has assumed the cells would be the punishment for this anyway. Which is one of the reasons he doesn't care about getting caught; he wants to see inside them, check for surveillance, test their limits. No better way to do that than from the inside - unless he actually got a job on Security, which, no.

He huffs, and sits up, and closes his eyes. Let her think he's more annoyed than he is, that's fine too. Flame. Flame. Flaaaaaame.

Oh look, he's thinking about Sherlock again.

X shoves his shoulder with one hand.

Gently.

"I have been well-trained."

So many of her friends are assholes. It helps.

"You are thinking again."

(Literally do this all day. And all night. This is not a joke.)

'I've got nice things to think about.'

He shuts up then. And thinks, and does not meditate. Guess what, X? He can do this all day and all night too, no worries at all.

She graduates from nudging him to flicking tiny bits of twig in his general direction.

Also the occasional flower.

They come at irregular intervals, because predictability is also boring.

"Irrelevant," she says. Because it is.

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