we can't think, we can't stop;

[workaphilic]

Who: Sherlock Holmes and YOU.
What: Smoking is permissible in designated areas only. Theoretically.
When: NOW
Where: Library
Rating: PG for nicotine??

[He's an odd one, Sherlock Holmes, if you're somehow fortunate enough not to have noticed already. Usually he keeps the bulk of it restricted to his flat, but today he's taking the library.

Something about the chairs must be interrupting his thought-process, because he's taken a seat on top of one of the tables, smack-dab in the center. Scattered around him are more than a few books on various topics, from apiology to the botany of different worlds. He has one open in his lap.

He's not reading it right now, though. Right now he's apparently decided that this is the best time to light up a cigarette, surrounded by all this paper.

All in all, it's a bit of a spectacle.]

Comments

1/?

[theabjectauthor]

[a certain researcher, critic, musician and author is meandering his way into the library, journal tucked neatly under his arm. he's glancing at the stacks, hoping to find a reference plaque that tells him how the Dewey Decimal System is organized here -

- but he stops short at the smell of smoke, and wrinkles his nose. wait -]

2/?

[theabjectauthor]

[that is smoke, that is CERTAINLY smoke, that is the very OPPOSITE OF GOOD, where is it coming from --]

3/?

[theabjectauthor]

[the proper authorities and/or volunteers must be alerted at once, and if nothing else, something must be done to stall the fire until help arrives --]

O, for a fire extinguisher...

[poof. a ghost shows up and hands him one. he jumps a little, with a tiny, quiet yelp, but then calms his proverbial jets - for Lemony Snicket is human, and therefore not actually equipped with jets, and a human from a somewhat reasonable world, and therefore not even equipped with a jet pack - and takes the extinguisher.

ONWARD.]

4/4

[theabjectauthor]

[as he rounds the corners of the stacks, searching, he follows his nose ... until he spots Sherlock, puffing away, and one of the papers starting to slowly catch fire.

pardon him while he does what Snickets have done best for generations: overreact.]

OH, GOOD HEAVENS, SIR, WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING?!

[he'll be pointing that extinquisher at the paper and letting it rip now. hope you weren't fond of that outfit]

1/2

[workaphilic]

[He opens his mouth indignantly, ready to argue for his right to smoke in the most inappropriate places possible, when...

Well.

Lemony puts the fire out.]

[workaphilic]

[His mouth snaps shut, his jaw tightens, and there's a long, tense moment where he surveys the damage. His clothes (ruined), the books (ruined), his cigarette (destroyed).

He lifts his gaze back to Lemony, barely moving, and grits words out through anger.]

Was that absolutely necessary?

[theabjectauthor]

There was a very high risk you could have set this whole place ablaze, sir! Of course it was necessary!

[he sets the extinguisher down and picks up one of the books, pulling out a handkerchief and starting to clean off the binding meticulously. if anyone knows how to save a book, he does]

[workaphilic]

I had the situation in hand.

[Well, kind of.

He rifles through his pockets, pulls out his pack of cigarettes. Please please let there one that survived....]

[theabjectauthor]

Yes, if by "the situation" you mean "the cause of it"! What in the name of all that is decent, if not perhaps holy, would have possessed you to light a cigarette in the midst of a library?!

[workaphilic]

I wanted one.

[He still wants one. He plucks cigarettes out of the box and dumps them on the table when they don't seem to meet his standards.

After the first four he just upends the box on the table and glowers. So begins the sulk.]

[theabjectauthor]

Sir.

[his slight lisp seems to grow stronger the more emotion colors his speech. that one word is nearly unintelligible, but manages as enough of a dumping ground so that the rest can be understood. dryly:]

While I am reasonably tolerant of and sympathetic to certain legal chemical dependencies, it is also both common practice and common sense to indulge in them in either a safe or mutually designated location. In the case of nicotine, I seem to need to remind you that a library is neither.

[workaphilic]

You seem to be under the impression that I'm meant to care about any sort of designation about where I can and cannot smoke. A hint: I don't.

[He fishes through his other pocket for his lighter, and tests it a few times to be sure it works. It does, to his supreme relief.]

Castle. A cigarette.

[He's not supposed to be wishing anymore. But it's small, and John won't find out. It materializes between his fingers, and he lights it.

He meets Lemony's gaze defiantly.]

[persequor]

Is that really good?

[ Arya half-frowns at the cigarette. Beside her, Nymeria snorts. ]

[workaphilic]

[His eyes hop from the book to Nymeria, then settle on Arya and stay there. He doesn't say anything at first, just observes her and takes a long drag from his cigarette.

He lets the smoke slip from his mouth rather than exhale it.]

Yes.

[persequor]

Why?

[workaphilic]

Because reward circuits in my brain respond positively to nicotine.

[persequor]

--what?

[workaphilic]

[The edge of his mouth quirks. He takes another drag.]

There are chemicals in it. They have a calming effect.

[persequor]

Is that like chamomile and the like then?

[magicalwright]

[ oh! hey, that's the man from that nightmare! ]

Isn't it a bad idea to smoke that close to lots of paper? You might light yourself on fire if you're not careful!

[workaphilic]

[Oh. That girl from his nightmare.

He doesn't make any indication that he recognizes her. He really doesn't want to go down that road.]

I'm being careful.

[He taps the edge of the cigarette so the ash falls on the table. B(]

[magicalwright]

[ HMPH ]

... I thought adults were supposed to at least pretend to be responsible!

[workaphilic]

If you thought that, then you haven't been paying attention.

[against]

[ Dean's here to find out some information about the castle since his brother had managed to get himself stuck in some freak maze. He's walking down the aisles, trying to decide which section to go to or find someone who can help him with his search when he smells cigarette smoke. ]

Huh. [ Not the kind of thing you'd expect to smell in a library. He pokes his head out and sees a regular looking guy seated on a table. Possibly some kind of a whackjob by the looks of it, but hell, he'll take his chances. ]

Hey -- you there.

[workaphilic]

[Sherlock doesn't look up. He just turns the page of his book and sighs, heavy and melodramatic.]

What?

[He draws the word out impatiently, like he's already tired of being interrupted.]