017: action --> voice
Pre-transmission
Obviously the DNA testing proved that Gregory Tresler killed the man from the fight club. The young man was insane, not stupid; he knew where to find people that could provide the challenge he was looking for. Now Sherlock had to find him.
It turned out to be less difficult than he'd thought. He checked the numbers for who won the most fights over the course of June at the club. Tied for first were the dead man and another Sherlock knew, the one he defeated on the Network transmission he was still rather peeved about. The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was have a casual chat with the oaf, but he was not one to shirk a lead. When he reached the man's apartment, however, Sherlock found he didn't really have to talk to him at all. The sounds of a scuffle were coming from inside, and just as he leaned closer to the door, it rattled on its hinges as someone slammed against it.
Sherlock kicked out the lock and threw the door open, allowing his old friend from the club to slump at his feet, pissing and moaning at the slightest takedown, as usual. He wasn't dead, then. Fine. Sherlock looked up and smirked to see his silent opponent-- Gregory Tresler, nineteen, strong build, dead eyes, and not a word from his mouth. He differed a bit now from the photo ID the asylum. Haggard would be an understatement. His hair looked wet with grease, and his eyes were bloodshot. His patient's uniform had obviously been hastily discarded for some charity goods, as the clothes were clearly old and flimsy, even if they weren't tattered by how their wearer had been living. Tears on the sleeves of his shirt were caused by a knife in some places-- desperate fighters resorted to unfair means. Sherlock could see a quickly scarring slash right above Tresler's neckline. He could see it in his mind's eye: The victim narrowly missing the jugular as Tresler held him down and pummeled him in the face until he could feel bone. Bandages were wrapped around his knuckles because of this.
It was all the detective had time to process in about two seconds, because Tresler lurched forward. Sherlock phased through him and into the apartment. After getting a closer look at his face, Sherlock could see that Tresler hadn't been eating, in addition to the clear sleep deprivation. His lips were chapped and his breath was sour. He twisted around to look at Sherlock again, temporarily confused, but then resumed beating his newest victim.
"Obsession fuels you, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked calmly, over the sounds of the beaten man's shrieks. It was one state of mind he could actually understand. Why had he taken a bounty, of all things? As always, to be forever occupied. Tresler stopped again to look at him. "All in your file. Caught while looking for a challenge, and you've yet to find one. They think you're on a power trip. But it's obsession. If you were being arrogant about your abilities, you wouldn't constantly be trying to prove their effectiveness." Sherlock stood his ground as Tresler's face contorted with rage. "No. Someone, for quite a long time, told you that you were weak. Your father, judging by your prowess in boxing and not something more unisex. Not to mention your victims tend to be overly masculine and self assured." Tresler's unfortunate sparring partner struggled to sit up.
"You want a challenge? That skinny little prick beat me, why aren't you wailing on him?"
The way Tresler looked at Sherlock this time made the detective scoff. Helpful little bastard, aren't you? Gregory's eyes bore into him, sizing him up, strategizing, preparing to strike. Sherlock took his own boxing stance. He certainly wasn't going to be beaten again.
[Voice, later]
[There's the sound of someone gargling and struggling in the background, but Sherlock speaks with as much nonchalance as usual, if not a little out of breath. His fight with Tresler left him winded, but he decided to wait a bit to transmit his request.]
If I could get some sort of quick transport to the asylum as soon as possible, it'd be much appreciated.
Obviously the DNA testing proved that Gregory Tresler killed the man from the fight club. The young man was insane, not stupid; he knew where to find people that could provide the challenge he was looking for. Now Sherlock had to find him.
It turned out to be less difficult than he'd thought. He checked the numbers for who won the most fights over the course of June at the club. Tied for first were the dead man and another Sherlock knew, the one he defeated on the Network transmission he was still rather peeved about. The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was have a casual chat with the oaf, but he was not one to shirk a lead. When he reached the man's apartment, however, Sherlock found he didn't really have to talk to him at all. The sounds of a scuffle were coming from inside, and just as he leaned closer to the door, it rattled on its hinges as someone slammed against it.
Sherlock kicked out the lock and threw the door open, allowing his old friend from the club to slump at his feet, pissing and moaning at the slightest takedown, as usual. He wasn't dead, then. Fine. Sherlock looked up and smirked to see his silent opponent-- Gregory Tresler, nineteen, strong build, dead eyes, and not a word from his mouth. He differed a bit now from the photo ID the asylum. Haggard would be an understatement. His hair looked wet with grease, and his eyes were bloodshot. His patient's uniform had obviously been hastily discarded for some charity goods, as the clothes were clearly old and flimsy, even if they weren't tattered by how their wearer had been living. Tears on the sleeves of his shirt were caused by a knife in some places-- desperate fighters resorted to unfair means. Sherlock could see a quickly scarring slash right above Tresler's neckline. He could see it in his mind's eye: The victim narrowly missing the jugular as Tresler held him down and pummeled him in the face until he could feel bone. Bandages were wrapped around his knuckles because of this.
It was all the detective had time to process in about two seconds, because Tresler lurched forward. Sherlock phased through him and into the apartment. After getting a closer look at his face, Sherlock could see that Tresler hadn't been eating, in addition to the clear sleep deprivation. His lips were chapped and his breath was sour. He twisted around to look at Sherlock again, temporarily confused, but then resumed beating his newest victim.
"Obsession fuels you, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked calmly, over the sounds of the beaten man's shrieks. It was one state of mind he could actually understand. Why had he taken a bounty, of all things? As always, to be forever occupied. Tresler stopped again to look at him. "All in your file. Caught while looking for a challenge, and you've yet to find one. They think you're on a power trip. But it's obsession. If you were being arrogant about your abilities, you wouldn't constantly be trying to prove their effectiveness." Sherlock stood his ground as Tresler's face contorted with rage. "No. Someone, for quite a long time, told you that you were weak. Your father, judging by your prowess in boxing and not something more unisex. Not to mention your victims tend to be overly masculine and self assured." Tresler's unfortunate sparring partner struggled to sit up.
"You want a challenge? That skinny little prick beat me, why aren't you wailing on him?"
The way Tresler looked at Sherlock this time made the detective scoff. Helpful little bastard, aren't you? Gregory's eyes bore into him, sizing him up, strategizing, preparing to strike. Sherlock took his own boxing stance. He certainly wasn't going to be beaten again.
[Voice, later]
[There's the sound of someone gargling and struggling in the background, but Sherlock speaks with as much nonchalance as usual, if not a little out of breath. His fight with Tresler left him winded, but he decided to wait a bit to transmit his request.]
If I could get some sort of quick transport to the asylum as soon as possible, it'd be much appreciated.