oo1: arrival. HOLO, amidst other things.
This is yet another morning where Sherlock Holmes is far from keen on waking up. The light's already stinging his eyes, and he finds himself issuing a half-grumbled, half-growled "Watson," as his hands flatten to the floor before him, splayed in such a way to provide enough traction to drag himself forward a fraction of an inch.
His brows furrow when he slides with such surprising ease. There's another guttural sound as Holmes pats the surface beneath him - curious. It wasn't the carpeting, nor the hardwood, with which the detective was so familiar after years of missing his bed. "Should have been hardwood, at least," he mutters to himself, still far from awake, already set into the throes of some wild theory before his eyes so much as slit open.
He takes note of the smell. Or lack of smell, as it were; his own quarters simply do not smell this clean. And if his prior activities weren't a dream there should have been remnants of candles, chalk, the ritual ingredients he'd so painstakingly prepared in accordance to Blackwood's handy manual. "... unfamiliar."
So much is the conclusion, and for a while Holmes lies still, looking as if he may have fallen back to sleep. It's a dream, he reasons - somewhere on the border of consciousness and REM, probably the result of the copious amount of God only knew what he'd had to drink before committing himself to the ridiculous task at hand. The minutes tick by uninterrupted, and to his own growing discomfort his perceived surroundings fail to change.
It's only now that he opens his eyes. He sees silver. Silver? "No, steel," he corrects himself, grazing a hand experimentally over the surface he can now actually see. "Not quite dingy enough for an asylum. Far exceeds Watson's level of cleanliness..." to those listening, it might sound like he's jotting down notes rather than taking in his new surroundings.
His body stills for a moment, and then his head lifts, sudden, eyes narrowed with something other than sleep. He's focused on his right hand - his wrist, more specifically - and the thin metal band now fastened there. It's unlike anything he's ever seen, and for the moment he's at a loss for words. He lifts the opposite hand, cautiously extending a single finger, and gives the thing a tap.
No explosions.
Another, and once more before he shifts the hand bearing the new device, twisting it in an effort to see any lock or clasp that may be keeping it in place.
None of that, either.
"Identification, perhaps? But with no discernible symbols or method of attachment - streamlined, far beyond the point of any would be jeweler or locksmith. What on Earth -"
He falls silent as his gaze rests upon the tablet lying but a few feet away. That's something new, too, and for the moment it looks far more interesting than the unidentified band around his wrist. Rather than standing, Holmes takes the quicker route and pulls himself, belly down, over to the device.
"My God," he remarks, pulling it toward himself with both hands - thankfully it's nothing harmful - and peering right at the blank screen he can be seen reaching to push a button. "This is ama-"
[ voice ]
"-zing. I've never seen anything quite like it, and here I thought the light bulb was the pinnacle of scientific inven-"
[ visual ]
The video feed cuts in, but all it shows is an extreme close-up of this strange fellow's still bleary yet overly excited eye. "...tion. Is that a film?" he pulls back slightly, a head-on view of his frazzled hair and vaguely shocked (but strangely gleeful) expression. "And of myself no less - instantaneous! Watson, you simply must see th--"
[ power off ]
He spends some time fiddling with the device again - a good fifteen minutes or so - before finding the means to turn it back on, at which points it defaults back to its original, holographic setting. It seems he's already deep in verbal contemplation, unawares of the fact that he's possibly being observed.
" --that remains is determining a purpose."
His brows furrow when he slides with such surprising ease. There's another guttural sound as Holmes pats the surface beneath him - curious. It wasn't the carpeting, nor the hardwood, with which the detective was so familiar after years of missing his bed. "Should have been hardwood, at least," he mutters to himself, still far from awake, already set into the throes of some wild theory before his eyes so much as slit open.
He takes note of the smell. Or lack of smell, as it were; his own quarters simply do not smell this clean. And if his prior activities weren't a dream there should have been remnants of candles, chalk, the ritual ingredients he'd so painstakingly prepared in accordance to Blackwood's handy manual. "... unfamiliar."
So much is the conclusion, and for a while Holmes lies still, looking as if he may have fallen back to sleep. It's a dream, he reasons - somewhere on the border of consciousness and REM, probably the result of the copious amount of God only knew what he'd had to drink before committing himself to the ridiculous task at hand. The minutes tick by uninterrupted, and to his own growing discomfort his perceived surroundings fail to change.
It's only now that he opens his eyes. He sees silver. Silver? "No, steel," he corrects himself, grazing a hand experimentally over the surface he can now actually see. "Not quite dingy enough for an asylum. Far exceeds Watson's level of cleanliness..." to those listening, it might sound like he's jotting down notes rather than taking in his new surroundings.
His body stills for a moment, and then his head lifts, sudden, eyes narrowed with something other than sleep. He's focused on his right hand - his wrist, more specifically - and the thin metal band now fastened there. It's unlike anything he's ever seen, and for the moment he's at a loss for words. He lifts the opposite hand, cautiously extending a single finger, and gives the thing a tap.
No explosions.
Another, and once more before he shifts the hand bearing the new device, twisting it in an effort to see any lock or clasp that may be keeping it in place.
None of that, either.
"Identification, perhaps? But with no discernible symbols or method of attachment - streamlined, far beyond the point of any would be jeweler or locksmith. What on Earth -"
He falls silent as his gaze rests upon the tablet lying but a few feet away. That's something new, too, and for the moment it looks far more interesting than the unidentified band around his wrist. Rather than standing, Holmes takes the quicker route and pulls himself, belly down, over to the device.
"My God," he remarks, pulling it toward himself with both hands - thankfully it's nothing harmful - and peering right at the blank screen he can be seen reaching to push a button. "This is ama-"
[ voice ]
"-zing. I've never seen anything quite like it, and here I thought the light bulb was the pinnacle of scientific inven-"
[ visual ]
The video feed cuts in, but all it shows is an extreme close-up of this strange fellow's still bleary yet overly excited eye. "...tion. Is that a film?" he pulls back slightly, a head-on view of his frazzled hair and vaguely shocked (but strangely gleeful) expression. "And of myself no less - instantaneous! Watson, you simply must see th--"
[ power off ]
He spends some time fiddling with the device again - a good fifteen minutes or so - before finding the means to turn it back on, at which points it defaults back to its original, holographic setting. It seems he's already deep in verbal contemplation, unawares of the fact that he's possibly being observed.
" --that remains is determining a purpose."