Who: The Port's Latest Shadow Televisions Stars! And Thousands of Home Viewers!
When: Midnight, Thursday December 14th
Where: In front of your Television Sets or Streaming NV TV. (Digital Cable? You'll still get the analog effect.)
Summary:
Full Plot Details HereWarnings: Please Put 'em In the Subject Lines As Necessary, Kids?
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Loading loading loading, quickly reaching maximum capacity/ Warning warning warning, gonna short-circuit my identity )
The music pounds out again, and orange daylight brightens a dingy looking room of an apartment that’s seen better days. Paint and wallpaper is peeled back to reveal wood paneling, and bugs can be seen crawling through the cracks. Their legs creep in time with the skittering score of the scene. The floor is covered in suspicious stains and plastic bags, while a rainbow of pills roll lazily along the floor, tinkling like bells. Scrap metal curls around the window frames with the deadened harps, and there doesn’t seem to be a door.
At the center of the screen, leaning back against a wall, Sherlock can be seen, still as the drone of music continues, save for a twitch in his left arm. His shirt is tattered, and what looks like a strip from the sleeve is tied around the twitching arm at the elbow like a tourniquet. The cigarette bobs in his lips as he speaks, but not loud enough for anyone to hear. He only seems to vocalize the vengeful sounding chorus at first.
When the music comes to another halt, his head snaps up to face the camera, puffing away at the cigarette. His sharp blue eyes only look like dark pits now, sunken back, and his face is sallow and more gaunt than usual. His right hand reaches into his pocket and takes out a filthy syringe, which he unceremoniously stabs into the vein bulging next to the tourniquet. The chorus screams and the lights vanish again, leaving a faint glow in the darkness where his arm had been. The red glow spreads from where the needle punctured Sherlock’s skin, and slowly spread across him like map routes. The shape of a man becomes clear again as his whole circulatory system glows to the building thrum of what sounds like a thousand horrified violins. The heart throbs at the center, beating far too quickly to be normal. The music becomes like frantic clockwork.
“My seven percent solution,” his voice finally comes out of the darkness, “To all of your pathetic little problems. If you can’t be bothered to think about them, why should I?” A strangled air of rage colors the inflection of his voice. “Anyone stupid enough to die before their time deserves exactly what they get. Anyone stupid enough to get caught in the act deserves precisely everything they get.”
The lights return, and Sherlock is now translucent as a ghost, while the floor beneath him starts to collapse like a sinkhole of sand. His head reels back, whatever drug he took enthralling what’s left of his senses as he sinks into nothingness.
“I don’t need feelings anymore. I don’t need anyone.”
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It's all going really well until his computer screen flickers and becomes static. He sighs, pressing some random keys in an attempt to fix it, when the severity of the music that suddenly blasts out of the speakers causes him to jump up in his seat. Blackheath has the same flighty reaction as him, whimpering and scampering away from the harsh pitches emitting from John's NV and he's about to give up and turn the device off when his flatmate is unveiled from the darkness as the midnight channel's latest host.
He knows all about the interference, of course. It's hard not to miss these transmissions and half the reason why the television set is muted. As strange and concerning the content has been over the past couple of evenings, John doesn't quite know what to think about it, until he watches Sherlock pump himself full of drugs on his screen.
That's... well, that's not good.
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A shooting gallery in Shepherd's Bush. An endless stash of cocaine, his first truly difficult case, the hopeless stupidity of Lestrade's predecessor, Mycroft's meddling--
Sherlock is now sitting properly without realizing it. His hands grip the arms of the chair and his jaw is set. Everyone was seeing this. No, John was seeing it, that was more important. His head whips around to see his friend watching it just as sharply on the NV monitor. Sherlock doesn't say anything, but his eyes are wide, frantic. I don't do that anymore.
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He's seen that wide-eyed, frantic expression on his face before and he straightens up, trying to defuse the situation, "... Someone's got a sick sense of humour."
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"That seven percent's not a joke." He remembers exactly how to blend it, and where to get the materials. Just in case he ever gets really, truly bored.
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Drug addiction wasn't exactly a good subject to bring up with someone you're tenanting with but, more than that, John recognized the need to keep certain aspects of your life to yourself and admired it. So, he put it in the back of his mind - each to their own.
"How do they know, Sherlock?"
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"It's not a 'they.' So many people have appeared already, with apparently extremely sensitive information. And the locations that appear don't exist in the Port. At least-- that one doesn't." He pauses, pursing his lips for a moment before going on with his train of thought.
"This would take a massive collaboration of powers, but if it was meant to humiliate whoever was chosen, it would be on during prime time, not this late. There's some sort of connection to the suicide pact those teenagers made the other week. And they're part of the Darkness now."
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Unless he started behaving like the man in the show, John was not going to broach the subject with him yet - it would only lead to disappointment, the type he usually reserved for Harry and the various vices, which mired her personal life. He didn't want to put Sherlock on that pedestal.
"Right..." John murmurs slowly and rubs the back of his neck. "So, it has something to do with out there, not someone... okay."
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"It'll be waiting out there. I have to get rid of it."
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John reaches for his crutches and starts to haul himself up from the couch.
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Blackheath whines and looks between them with confusion. Sherlock nudges the dog toward John.
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John is incredulous and, for probably the first time since they got him, doesn't pay any heed to Blackheath.
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"If I can kill it, then it won't..." Taunt me. Turn me back to that. Convince me I've been wrong about this. "...Hurt anyone."
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"It doesn't look like it's in the right state to do much of anything." John drawls pointedly, licking his lips angrily, ignoring his NV as it begins to ring in the background.
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Of course, deep down, he knows that's a lie. When he saw flickering Christmas lights, he saw the Semtex relentlessly blinking on John's chest. When he watched people carve pumpkins on Halloween he saw Carrie's bloody, empty skull.
But nothing was going to use those thoughts against him. Nothing. Sherlock wordlessly sits down back in his chair, but doesn't remove his coat, and he doesn't say anything. He just stares straight ahead, waiting.
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