I'm looking through you

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Who: Sherlock Holmes and Miles Edgeworth
When: Morning tea time, April 17th.
Where: Sector 4
Summary: Two guys with old fashioned names find the effects of the Core going crazy rather distressing. Or at least just very annoying.
Warnings: Too much tea? HAHAHA jk no such thing

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[mentis_reae]

Only yesterday, Robin had asked of Edgeworth what he needed. He'd answered that he'd needed his work. This had, of course, been perfectly true; without his work, this would be a completely unproductive week, and the very thought was altogether offensive to him. He was eternally grateful to her, indeed, for having brought that work to him. But, like a damn fool, he'd completely neglected to ask her to bring him food; in the morning, he'd searched the cabinets to find them completely bare. He was hardly going to call her up to ask her to play courier for him; he was, as of yet, not quite that entitled. And nor for that matter could he ask for an actual courier, since he didn't have any cash. So, the morning of the seventeenth, the third day of these damnable, miserable powers, he tramped down to the food market that was most likely to be abandoned.

With concentration, he was able to shut out the thoughts of people not immediately in his vicinity. That was an improvement, at least. It was a matter of focus on oneself; so long as one thought purely about internal matters, with intense concentration, one could filter out some of the background noise. It was a lost cause if someone strayed too close, of course, but at least it was an improvement.

And at least the grocery was indeed comparatively empty. There were other shoppers, yes, but largely in the produce aisle, and God knew it wasn't as though he was able to cook anything fresh as it was. So long as he made his food selections based upon what was the least popular, he was fine.

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It was unfortunate that even Siren's Port had a Sunday lull. Getting to the shop would be easier if he had people's shadows to jump between. As it was, a five minute walk took half an hour while clinging to buildings in two dimensions. When he became whole again after slipping through the automatic doorway, he focused on his feet. To only keep them solid wasn't quite as difficult as his entire body, and there was less danger of falling through concrete and into the sewer system here.

This allowed the rest of his mind to stay as active as always, but of course he never considered its effect on telepaths. Sherlock's mind was not unlike a computer. While the main function was obvious, a thousand processes were running in the background, even more furiously than the idea at hand.

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Reading minds was not completely like listening to others. In regular noise, after all, there was never any risk that one would mistake one's own voice for another's; one had to put forth the effort to speak, one could feel one's throat moving, and one could process within the mind whether the voice was external and was being received or whether it had originated in one's mind and proceeded from there to voice. When one read another's mind...There was always confusion over who had thought what. And that difference was fundamental and terrifying.

Nevertheless, there were certain similarities. People did have their own voice, after a fashion, which was why Edgeworth could spend time more easily with the likes of Re-l and Merlin - their thoughts were distinct enough from his own that there was less danger of being confused. The noise varied depending upon proximity, as well. And, just as in speech, there were certain people whose mental voices carried.

One had just entered the store.

Edgeworth's scowl was immediate. He turned to glare at whoever it was whose mental voice was nattering on about a dozen things at once, but the individual wasn't in sight. Edgeworth looked at his purchases, debated simply leaving...But then determined that, no, he couldn't go quite yet.

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If Sherlock's thoughts were visible as well as audible, one would be able to compare it to an electron cloud in which he was the nucleus. And if he was thinking extensively, so would the cloud expand. The trouble was, Sherlock was always thinking extensively. He was using his feet to test the physical composition of the floors, while he strategically searched for the refrigerators. He was thinking of how this might be affecting John at the hospital, and the predicament of not being able to text. That was one of the most vexing.

On the backburners, he was listing possibilities of what caused the Core to act up (SERO's interference? A surge after so long being inactive?), and as ever, lining out his cases (Master Xehanort's odd transmission, the murders at the mall, and the priority of finding Black Mask above all of it. Endless, endless minutiae. At the back of the store, at least he could focus on one thing-- milk.

He had noticed someone else in the store, and that registered in his thoughts as well, but tea was more important than random corner store patrons at the moment. He had bigger problems anyway, as he couldn't quite grasp the fridge door handle, repeatedly swatting at it. His hand only went right through. Insubstantial as his lungs were, his sigh was still audible.

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Ah. From the tenor of the thoughts, Edgeworth understood at once that this was Holmes. A swell of unease immediately overtook him. The more chaotic and disordered the mind, the more difficulties Edgeworth had. Someone like Re-l Mayer, an intelligent and focused woman who was able easily to control her thoughts, was easy to be around. Someone like Daedalus Yumeno, on the other hand, no less intelligent but altogether mentally uncontrolled, was difficult - upsetting, distracting, with the force of his intrusive, racing thoughts almost completely destroying Edgeworth's. Around someone like Yumeno, Edgeworth could not formulate his own ideas; all he could do was react.

Holmes, as it turned out, was even worse than Yumeno. His thoughts were strong, intense, and completely scattered. There was no focus, no logic - and worse, damn it all, the thoughts were those which were interesting to him, so he didn't even have a will to block them out. Damn it. Damn it. The smart thing to do would be to flee at once, before Edgeworth was paralyzed by the thoughts and personality intruding upon him, shaking his sense of self.

But - evidently, the man was insubstantial. It was some effect of the Core, something which was akin to the damnable effects Edgeworth himself was now experiencing. Edgeworth did not especially like Holmes - found him insufferably arrogant and, worse by far, altogether without the altruism which was all that could keep an investigator from becoming rampantly corrupt. Nevertheless, that did not mean that he would want to see him altogether robbed of dignity, pawing at the door to the dairy case without any effect.

Damn it, damn it. Edgeworth's damned foolish need to help had nearly ended with him and three others dead in a traffic accident not two days before. He needed to realize that he couldn't help, that he would do harm if he didn't respect his limitations. He couldn't wade into the cloud of near-madness that surrounded Holmes -

Goddammit. Four steps and he was at the refrigerator door; a scowl, and he was wrenching it open. "Manage your thoughts and focus," he said, nausea churning in his stomach as he concentrated on nothing more than intently reading the label on the milk. "What percentage fat and what volume."

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It was a good thing the telepathy wasn't mutual, or Sherlock's ego would have been needlessly stroked knowing that under his derision Edgeworth knew his thoughts were interesting. There was already no doubt of that in his mind.

As it was, though, he merely felt the presence of someone approach and parried out of habit. The method to break a wrist if need be flashed in his head, until he noticed who it was, and that the door was open. Sherlock said nothing at first, noting the pain in the prosecutor's face. Classic of nausea, but this was an odd hour for it. Not after lunch, too long after breakfast. Edgeworth's words were more telling, though they threw him at first.

"What--" Island wide chaos with powers. Network post warning people to stay away from him, now in the presence of someone but seeming to be the one in pain himself, clearly related. Intense focus centred on something simple; a method for controlling thought. No previous signs of psychosis. My thoughts?-- This string of thought concluded in seconds, and Sherlock understood. Psychic abilities. Instantly he felt exposed, shutting up his thoughts like they were in an attic, but Sherlock's mind was impossible to turn off, and now it was scrambling.

The realization made him his foot sink into the floor slightly. He cursed and fixed it, but kept his gaze on the prosecutor, his back arched defensively. "Don't."

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At least he made an effort. At least he attempted to control his thoughts. If he hadn't, Edgeworth would have slammed the case door shut at once, dropped his groceries on the floor, and charged for the exit. He would have returned after that, as a matter of course, to ensure that nothing had been damaged and pay for what had - but he'd have had to have fled at once. As it stood - As it stood, he was able to simply read the label again and again, focus on each letter spelling out the milk's place of origin even as in the back of his mind he conjugated the past perfect of all the irregular Latin verbs he knew.

And that was enough. Instead of fleeing, he was able to stay there with hands shaking and stomach churning but nevertheless holding onto his sense of self. With intense concentration, he was able to know - he was Miles Edgeworth, and milk label and Latin were his, and all else was foreign.

Thank you, Merlin.

"Tell me or don't," he gritted out. "The offer expires in the next ten seconds; continue to protest, and you'll have to without." Or appeal to one of the other shoppers to help a Newcomer. Holmes would need damn good luck to find one who would.

one essay attack later

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Every chamber of his mind was bursting at the seams to be opened again. He hated it, it was so dull--

"It doesn't matter. Two gallons." Sherlock wouldn't--couldn't-- fix his thoughts into singularity, so instead, he began to go through the score of Schubert's Eighth Symphony. The music was voluminous, but it was one thing, at the very least, with a few thoughts on the Collar Killer case slipping through.

"Why are you around people if you don't want this effect?"