Work Text:
Ten windows. Average 7 tabs per window.
And nothing at all of interest.
Click. Reload. Read. Repeat.
Stop halfway through a sentence — but no. The solution is obvious; even Lestrade’s people should be able to figure it out.
Click. Reload. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
Picks up the half-read sentence where he left off. No. Still boring.
One would think somebody in London would be up to something interesting. Distracting. Anything.
His thoughts are a tumultuous ocean, waves surging in all directions with nothing to latch onto.
… he could always calm the ocean.
John would disapprove, but he’s three hours away by train, which is part of the problem — if he were here, he’d be the next best — or, to be honest, better — distraction.
The leather case, the syringe, the precise amount of the 7% solution to fill — or rather erase — the elapsed time desired. Two hours of emptiness, an hour of slow acceleration, and back to full speed just in time for John’s arrival.
And
Nothing.
Ocean smooth as glass.
…
The clock shows an hour since the last time he looked, half an hour until John should arrive, and he’s had maybe two thoughts worth noticing in that time. He considers a new standard of measurement — thoughts per hour for subjective time.
That counts as a third one. Is it accelerating? Do thoughts about thoughts count?
Four, and the clock has jumped another ten minutes.
The trouble with a subjective time measurement is that he’s quite certain that most of London has less than one significant thought per hour. And he’s being generous with that.
(The clock has jumped by 5 minutes.)
But it would be quite useful for someone like himself, to measure how quickly he was approaching his normal state. He’ll need to establish a baseline, of course — ordinary (but not boring) times, times working on a case, adjusted for how many clues he has available as compared to when he has to send John off to pick up a package that their current client insists can’t be sent any other way. Can’t be picked up by Sherlock himself, he’s far too noticeable (as if John isn’t).
The clock appears to behaving normally now.
He hears the door open, the sound of John climbing the 17 steps. The very welcome voice saying “Got the package, bloody nuisance that was. It had better be worth it.”
Sherlock snatches it away from John, who has the resigned look of someone who expected exactly that. Tears it open. “Oh yes, this changes everything.”