mun saw sherlock, only has eye for gladstone

[bakedstreet]

[I have lived with Master Holmes and Master Watson for some time now, studying their behaviors and the society that human beings live in. I cannot be pulled away, not until my research is complete. My ancestors sent me down to Earth to learn the ways of its people, and I must return to my home planet before I go anywhere else. Please, woman, I implore you to let me continue on as usual, allowing Master Holmes to believe I do not mind his tests when, in reality, I am plotting his death just before my departure.

Not that Gladstone can talk or anything, but. He's saying it. With his eyes, like all good actors.]

Comments

[theburd]

[ Horatio feels your pain, Gladstone. He's used to putting up with idiots too. ]

[bakedstreet]

[At least his idiot can play music in between forcing substances down his throat or up his nose. That's about the extent of his goodness.

What's your idiot like, Burd?]

[theburd]

[ Regrettably, his life has been full of idiots. But now he's alone. Unwanted. Uncared for in a world full of unfriendly SHIELD agents.

But he's waiting. Biding his time until the right moment to strike. ]

[bakedstreet]

[Horatio.

Come closer.

If you can get him out of this half-dead state, he will help you. Just give him a few more months to complete his research.]

[theburd]

[ Horatio has been in the Red Room, Gladstone. He has time.

He has all the time in the world. ]

OMG LMAO

[keepcalmandcrackon]

.... Gladstone?

[he doesn't like that look in your eyes...]

You feeling alright, old chap?

sorry to spoil sherlock holmes 3

[bakedstreet]

[It's the same look as always, dazed and confused and glassy. There's nothing abnormal about it, if only because you never take him away from the mad genius.

He's a dog, so he can't talk, because dogs don't talk, but he grunts and tries to sit up—no, not quite. Not quite out of recovery there.

Come closer, John. Pet him, for God's sake; you owe him that much.]

you ruiner you, I don't know how I'll cope

[keepcalmandcrackon]

... Oh, what's he done to you now...

[scowling, he tosses his hat into the chair and kneels down next to his poor dog, putting a hand to the side of his head.

he'd take you away but well, Mary has this thing about drool on the furniture, and, er. he's working on it, alright. soon. hopefully.]

opium and gambling, most likely.

[bakedstreet]

[Look what you've done, John. Dogs end up high out of their minds when good people stand around and do nothing, same as any other great evil in the world.

The hand is nice and wonderful and earns another grunt. Only this grunt has more planning involved, meaning it gets slobber and snot all over the place.

This is what you deserve.]

Eeee Gladstone! <333

[flatmatewatson]

[Who left this bulldog out by himself??]

Here, boy... [John putting out a hand and squatting down to his level.] ...or girl?

he's amazing why aren't there tons of him

[bakedstreet]

[Watson do you really want to ask who let the dogs out?

It's hard to be on Gladstone's level, really, considering he floats in and out of extremely high and somewhere like complacent misery. He accepts that as long as Master Watson is enamored with his woman, he will be at the mercy of Master Holmes, who may start rubbing drugs on his teeth at this point. He's not sure. But he is sure he is a boy dog, and he's capable enough of movement to roll over on his back.

Jowls go aflutter and his ears lay flat down, giving him the look of a grumpy old man who's standing in the way of a fan. Also: boy.]

because all the watsons would claim them forever and ever :D

[flatmatewatson]

[Sorry, it slipped.

He sure looks dazed for a dog. John gives him a tentative pat on the head before carefully inspecting the rest of him with the clinical precision of a doctor.] Beg your pardon, boy.

[He gives the bulldog a rub on the head and checks his eye reactions.] Who has been mistreating you? [Who indeed.]

you gave me a reason to have this icon (that i so wanted), for that i thank you

[bakedstreet]

[Woof woof woof woof!

He is dazed and confused, all thanks to one Sherlock Holmes, his mortal enemy. If he could get his strength long enough, he'd destroy the man from the inside out, but alas—even his kind are weak to chemical injections.

Oh Jesus God (whoever that is, Gladstone just hears it from time to time), but it is bright, and his eyes feel like they've had salt kicked in them. Doctors are really quite awful with animals, he's found. He can't say who's been mistreating him, of course, but what he can do is snort loudly for Watson's trouble, snot and slobber flying everywhere. Hope you brought a hanky!]

let's go 3 for 3

[absurdlysimple]

Oh, no.

[Watson, ever the good samaritan, bends down to check on the poor dog. Well... he's alive, at least, which is good news, but...]

Whatever has happened to you, old chap?

all my hopes and dreams are coming true

[bakedstreet]

[Sir, your mustache is a thing of glory, and it reminds him of an old friend who's no longer a friend because he left him to rot in Sherlock Holmes' den of awful.

The dog is most definitely alive! The check gets Watson a snort with a great deal of snot and slobber, but hey. He's a bulldog. These things are expected.

What's happened? He can't say. He can, however, stretch all of his legs and shake, just before sneezing more slobber and snot all over his shoes.]

lifts gladstone upon a throne of watsons

[absurdlysimple]

[Eugh, gross. The dog's probably suffering more than he is though, so he flicks what he can off his hands, wiping the rest on his pants, and does what he can to comfort it.]

There, there. That's a good boy. [Pets for you, Gladstone.]

there he'll stay for 40 years

[bakedstreet]

[Good God, Gladstone suffers. There is a level of suffering the prophets of the bible went through; he's about that level, maybe worse on a bad day. Sometimes, he can't see through the fog of whatever chemical's running through his veins, but he can hear long enough for his irresponsible owner to be assured he doesn't mind.

He does. He really does. How could he not?

But, ooh, yes, pets. Gladstone appreciates pets. He doesn't get them so much. He appreciates them so much he's just going to try and wallow up in Mustached Man of Glory's lap for as long as he damn well can.]

suddenly feeling like the fly in the ointment... :)

[solvescases]

[Aha, a dog...perfect.]

Here, boy... [Sherlock has a new experiment to run and you just volunteered.]

OH NO NOT MASTER HOLMES...!

[bakedstreet]

[There is something familiar about this man who's talking to him. Something very familiar that stirs up a heated longing his gut, one that makes him want to latch onto a hunk of meat while staring at a particular violin and contemplating eating it. He knows better, however, because the strings, if swallowed whole, would be awful for his digestion...

He can't come because he's high as a kite, but he can move his legs like he'd be running if he possibly could. Just because he shifts his fat body so that he'd be running in the other direction is purely coincidental and has nothing to do with Sherlock being who he is. Really. Nothing at all.]

dun dun DUN!

[solvescases]

[Drat, the dog is defective. He needed a more lively guinea pig. And John wasn't home yet.]

I don't suppose you could wake up a bit more and swallow this? [Greatest detective in the world, ladies and gentlemen, talking to a dog. He's holding out a piece of fish temptingly near the dog's mouth.]

S O S please somebody help me it's not healthy for me to feel this way

[bakedstreet]

[Why is it that Gladstone is defective and not Sherlock's methods? Honestly now, blaming everyone but yourself is an ugly game...

Gladstone likes fish! He just doesn't like fish from men with the Holmes aura. However, it would help his stomach settles, perhaps, so he'll make like a compass dial and swivel just enough that when his mighty, meaty tongue flaps out, it's clear he's in the mood for fish.]

make that 2 :D

[overtly_covert]

[Hullo Gladstone. There's a dart flying your way. You don't mind terribly, do you?]

gladstone dies when the mayans predicted the end of the world

[bakedstreet]

[POO ON YOU, MASTER HOLMES.

Unfortunately, Gladstone does not live in the Matrix. Fortunately, he is used to this devious depravity, and while he is fat and high off God knows what, he manages to roll his body out of the way just in the nick of time.

No, he doesn't mind at all. Really, who would?]

It had to be Sherlock's fault somehow!

[overtly_covert]

[Did that bookshelf in the corner just move?

Nope. Just Sherlock disguised as said bookshelf. He steps out of place and pulls off his hood with a sigh.]

Oh come now, Gladstone. How am I to test the effects of the essense of the actaea pachypoda if you will not sit and stay?

peta is gonna get you sir

[bakedstreet]

[Master Holmes could always just inject him, not blow a dart at him like he's hunting a mammoth. Let's be honest: Gladstone would be the worst prey to brag about catching. He's fat and stubby and short, and short of (no pun intended) breaking out of the stranglehold of his jaws, there's nothing to brag about.

He could stab himself in the butt with that dart for all Gladstone cares. When he's dead, he'll feast on his corpse and summon his people to take him home. Or he will, in his head. It's just as possible he's hallucinated the whole alien cover story.

Gladstone is still. For a moment. He's waiting...waiting until Sherlock steps right in the line of fire to sneeze snot and spit all his shoes and pants. Merry Christmas, nightmare man!]