Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notquiteheartless) wrote2020-01-01 12:00 pm
notquiteheartless) wrote2020-01-01 12:00 pm
Appointments
For those threads that are not log or journal posts for Sherlock Holmes at Luceti.
Please title the initial comments with the date and the appropriate means of contact.
[ May 9th earliest morning technically ]
Should he go? Should he stay? Where does Moriarty even live?
He goes up on the roof for a time, but then he can't see his journal and he can't see much, so he returns to the flat and waits. He doesn't put a hole in the floor, but he does walk around for a time.
It's getting past 'late' and pushing 'early' and John is sitting in his chair wondering if he had made the right choice to stay. Surely Moriarty wouldn't try anything so soon. Not with that alter ego he's trying to hold up. Surely Sherlock's not so desperate yet. Fuck. ]
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Just as Moriarty had come to Baker Street to threaten him.
Turn about. Fair play.
He'd had the upper hand. Or at least an even field. Until those words.
"Have you told him?"
Two men here knew what had happened on that roof. Sherlock intended to keep it that way, and Moriarty knew that. Moriarty knew that he would never tell John why he'd done what he had. He'd never admit to that kind of weakness. To that sentimentality. To that attachement.
But it was a thought to prey on his mind.
And it had.
Sherlock Holmes entered 2-21 with an unusually quiet movement. Normally, he was utterly unaware of how loud his step was coming home or whether or not he slammed the door. Even if he was late returning. Tonight, though, it was almost normal. For anyone else. Carefully shutting the door, minimising sound that might wake the sleeping doctor. Had he been asleep.
It was difficult to say in the late hour, but he looked paler than usual, and his jacket lay perfectly still down his back, untroubled by ruffling or restless wings. Because they were pressed flat against his shirt, all nerves and the muscles tight coils. His fingers flexed and contracted just barely as he turned the deadbolt. Not that a lock would keep out anyone who really wanted in.
He breathed the word:] Damn.
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There is one lamp on anyway, one that stays on when one or both of them are out late so they don't go tripping in the dark, and to give the illusion that someone may be home to any passerby. ]
How'd it go, then?
[ John's chin shifts in his palm, eyes narrowed sharply across the room in this thin light. His jacket is draped across the arm of the chair and his journal is on his knee - ready to go at a moment's notice. Waiting for word that did not come.
There's an airiness to the doctor's tone that can never mean anything good. ]
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Master of observation, and he was caught off guard. Only for a second, almost imperceptible, but there.]
Ah.
[A whole host of words suit the situation now.]
You waited up.
[And he was going through them, sincerely wishing he had a morgue and his riding crop right about now. He could think of some experiment with the bruises, something new to try that would give him the excuse.
John... John had engaged the man before. He'd understand.
Except the last time Sherlock had met with the man alone, he'd come out with a severely battered wing. The time before that...
"Have you told him?"
"Keeping secrets ... I hate to think which could be worse."
And now... "How'd it go, then?"]
Uneventful.
[One more secret. One more lie. It hardly mattered now.]
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"Uneventful."
But John was rolling to his feet, flicking his journal blindly back into his armchair as he crossed the room, took hold of the lampshade, and tilted the spotlight onto the detective. ]
You're as white as a sheet.
[ Preemptively, John steps between Sherlock and the path to his room, fingers flexing over the shade, sooty against the light. ]
Did he hurt you?
[ A demand, low with the promise of control, even though John knows Sherlock would almost certainly lie if that were the case. Because first blood after this supposed non-physical truce meant no more holds were barred. ]
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[The quick reply comes from honesty.
He is, physically, unharmed. He cannot even explain his own nerves.
If he's here, Moriarty won't come. He won't do damage when Sherlock is around to intervene. If-- when-- it happens, it will be like the Americans. Returning to find the evidence. The aftermath. Besides, Moriarty won't spoil his fun like that. He won't do the most damage he can with the first blow. He'll have other things planned, small with increasing impact. Then he'll go after what's really important to the consulting detective.]
We talked.
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[ John echoes - corrects. Implying. ]
After we agreed you wouldn't.
[ Remember that, Sherlock? The first day you were back? You agreed you weren't going to start anything. You agreed you were both just going to watch for a time.
But that's not... really what John's concerned about. ]
What did he say?
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[There's a note of a growl in the words, low and dangerous. It isn't about no one believing him... even if no one would believe that. It's about how perfectly poised Moriarty is getting, how easily he can strike at any of the imbeciles who surround him, eating out of the palm of his hand.
How many of them will get themselves killed? How many of them will get other people killed?
And we talked about you.]
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[ John confirms, grimly. Still, it's milder than he actually feels - there's a sinking sense of terror in the former soldier, disgust and anger that threatens to claw at his throat. He releases the lampshade in order to cross his arms over his chest. ]
It's about time we start making our own allies, don't you think?
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[An echo of the words, no less true now than they had been.]
People don't like the truth. Especially when he's done such a fine job playing his part. We don't have any facts, John, no evidence to support our claim.
And the truth is far less easy for them to wrap their pathetic little minds around. Because it doesn't require them to think, and it means they don't have to be afraid.
[The nerves are turning to frustration. Which is, at least, less of a paralytic. He can work when frustrated. Not when paranoid.]
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What's he up to anyway, you think?
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[Because that, he can speak on definitely. He knows Moriarty. Knows that mind. He might not know details yet, but he knows that.]
It's the only reason he's been so quiet so long. He's patient-- but only when he's got something big in the works.
[Nothing from him between the name the cabbie had been forced to give him and the "game." Then, he'd vanished again until his message on the glass of the Crown Jewels.
Quiet from James Moriarty was not a good thing. "No news is good news"? Did not apply to him.]
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We've got to do something.
[ Obvious, yes, but what else can be said about it? ]
You couldn't tell anything about it when you saw him?
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[Because whatever he uses now, he'll have to assemble himself.
That's the one good thing about this place. The one small comfort. He wouldn't have help here, to put together his bombs and do his dirty work. He'll have to do the lion's share himself, and that will leave traces.]
I'm expecting a bomb.
But he might vary his methods.
[And then:]
Everything will point to me.
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[ And yet, discomforted is a sure thing, even if John is trying to hide it behind something stalwart. Aggression shifts his shoulders as well as his wings, those appendages beginning to rise away from his back, as if preparing for some vicious flap in the next moment. ]
You know this means you've got to vary your methods?
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[I've done far too much of that.
Waiting. Watching for the man to do something. But now? Now, he had to focus in on making sure nothing would happen because he wasn't willing to strike first.]
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[ You need to have someone with you. ]
He's had time to prepare for you before.
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[Sherlock actually smilse. It's not a big expression, but it's there, far more obvious than anything here he's shown so far.]
I'll see what I can do about that.
[John knows better, and Sherlock knows he knows.
"Could be dangerous."
"I said 'dangerous,' and here you are."
Their lives together are based around the precise opposite of being careful.]
action on the morning of June 18th in here, I believe.
Space. For god's sake, space of all places. Wasn't long back he relived someone's memory of a pirate ship and woke up a good thirty years younger, and then Luceti goes and surprises him again anyway.
It's not to say that he's worried.
Except for how he is, as a matter of fact, because Sherlock is about as skilled in staying out of trouble as he is in handling people delicately, and John is- well, John. Very capable but probably gonna follow wherever Sherlock gets himself to. John and Sherlock, together, which is equally as relieving as it is mildly terrifying. They are intelligent and skilled grown men who have apparently not died to date, and they can take care of themselves. And Lestrade has an oncoming thing or two of his own to be worrying over since the town meeting a while back, probably (plans to start making contact about, people to introduce himself to when it's cemented who he'll be working with), but he's got all day to be bothered about how to turn into a comatose blue man. God knows he's got all day and it might even take all day, on a plan that might fall through, while these two will most definitely be heading out into something tomorrow where there will be very definite trouble and risk of death. He can take his chances on bloody smurf-ification.
So here one Detective Inspector arrives at 2-21 and knocks, wings tucked in close under his jacket and a book tucked in close under one arm. ]
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But if that was a war, it was a very different kind than this.
His jacket kept his wings mostly hidden from view, but they had not stopped flexing and contracting, shuddering then pulling in tight. Always moving, revealing his nervousness even as he kept an utterly calm exterior. John would know what he was doing. The terrain wasn't Afghanistan, but... Once a soldier, always a soldier.
Yotsuba? He'd keep an eye on her. He'd make sure nothing happened to her.
Sherlock looks up from his seat in his armchair. A knock at the door. He almost remains silent, lets them go on their way. But... no. Best not to do that, he decides.]
Come in.
[He's not getting up to answer the door.]
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It never hurt to open on a lighter note. ]
Brought you this. Not that I'd expect it to be very handy in a different universe and everything, but still. [ But still it's space, and the solar system, and there are plenty of people from Earth who kept their primary school knowledge probably going along, and Sherlock Holmes was never particularly keen on looking like an idiot about something. With the occasional exception where he'd need that to get the advantage, which doesn't sound like a particularly good tactic to employ this time around.
The draftees might talk about Saturn, who knows?
...yeah. Mostly, this is simply one of the most accurate ways of acknowledging that he cannot, in fact, provide backup or help that's really helpful, and can more or less just wish them luck before they get out there reenacting Star Wars. ]
^ html hates me too
A book about Earth's solar system. When, in all likelihood, they're far from Earth. There are different kind of galaxies, aren't there? He thinks he vaguely remembers that. It snuck back in after being deleted. That irritating supernova, fixed forever in his mind because of its association with a very important case. So, a few complementary facts have crept in as well.
Still, it's an entirely useless book.]
Lestrade.
[From Sherlock, it's a warm enough greeting.
He has the information the Malnosso gave to them copied out of the Journal and spread out, memorising the plans and the schematics of the weapons and everything they gave him.]
There doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason to who they're sending.
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Not really supposed to be, is there? Half the point's probably to show they can pull out whoever they feel like and we can't stop it.
6/24, written. bit of a placeholder :I
All present and accounted for?
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I believe Donovan is at her flat. I haven't checked.
SH
[The handwriting is a little... off. Because he has the pen in his right instead of his left. But he won't be admitting to the wound John had to wrap up for him.]
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I'll check. Village had a time of it. [ From what he's seeing, anyway. His sincere hope is that Donovan kept up on having a good head on her shoulders and didn't get into anything serious.
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Bad storm, it seems.
I heard there was other trouble, too?
SH
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A bit. They sent the robots out collecting. Didn't help property damage any.
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And send John strong coffee and other treats. He's earned them.]They get who they were looking for?
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Just missed him. Really unfortunate turn. [ He is so heartbroken for the Malnosso. ]
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[Data. He always needs data.
And, really, all things considered, that is asking nicely. For him.]
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[ So Sherlock can neatly... pile it onto his coffee table when he's done with it or something. Sometimes he wonders if there really ever was a time when he didn't essentially report to the man. Maybe he'll put that in the paper too. Something to think on while he exercises his right to nap through most of the day like an adult. ]
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[This? This is the one great consolation of working with someone involved with the law and apprehension of criminals. Someone like that understands how vital even the smallest little thing can be.
Usually misreads all those little details... but at least Lestrade will understand that something others would see as insignificant might mean everything in the larger picture.]
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