Sunday the 22nd, noon.enigmaestroJanuary 20 2012, 00:19:18 UTC
Edward had informed Sherlock that their next session would be someplace intimate and quiet, an area of stark solitude. He decided on Sherlock's living quarters. Perfect for concentration, Eddie had argued. You're already deeply aware of the environment, you won't get distracted. He said this all with smiles and a rather coy tone in his voice -- nothing too sinister, but hints of smooth malice and winking mockery. They both knew it was little use to argue this particular point, Edward was a stubborn man.
He had brought a bottle of wine, mostly for himself. It was to aid the entertainment and he couldn't trust another man's taste in pinot noir.
Just upon reaching the block, Edward called through his communicator (not his personal number, never that). I'm just outside, he said. Are you ready?
He shut the communicator off, headed down to the door. He was dressed, at least, prim and posh as he usually was. That phase of the sulking was over. But the cigarette dangling from his lips was new - a retaken addiction that filled the whole flat. He opened the door as Edward approached, but didn't look directly at him.
Sherlock's avoidance of eye contact was noticeable immediately, and Eddie couldn't help but be amused. These little things always did entice him, these secret power plays; it was like Sherlock was hiding a message and simply beckoning for Edward to find it. And goodness, who could resist such a challenge?
"Redecorating the atmosphere?" The question was poised between sharp, smiling teeth. "Tobacco adds such a pleasant layer."
He followed in, behind Sherlock, careful to leer about in the most inappropriate of manners. He focused on the detail in the hallway, the room, looking at titles of books, any nicks on the furniture, the placement of any mirrors. The floor, for any well-worn carpet -- evidence of pacing. Little delectable hints.
"Be my guest." He motioned vaguely to the hook on the wall, where his own coat was hung, as well as John's coat - left in exactly the same place he had been since he had gone. The flat was, of course, nearly a disaster. With only Sherlock living there, everything was left exactly where it was placed, and that was haphazard at best. There was one mirror, only, beside the coats. Three bullet holes in the wall. A vast array of chemical equipment on the table (though he'd long gotten rid of any trace of cocaine).
His Porter wall was gone. All that was left was the single note - Porter - Imagination fixated into place with a hunting knife. Tiny little holes dotted the wall, as if hundreds of other pages should be there, but they were gone - only tiny tiny scraps remained, brushed up on the floor. The books were eclectic and varied wildly, a large number of them in doubles. There were four large gashes in the table, and... A strange, peachy smell, lingering lovely, when one walked by the mantle
( ... )
There was another tall, brooding shadow haunting the chilly city streets. Geddoe tended to roam most days regardless of whether he had somewhere to go, it was better than staying cooped up indoors. As long as the weather wasn't completely wretched, that is.
He stood out from the crowds he shouldered through in his black and gray leather armor with a sword at his side. People tended to shrink out of his way and let him pass. But even tourists had long ago given up mocking or gawking at him. He just sort of existed in this world, and that was fine.
It was habit, of course, to identify people as they walked by, even if they were suddenly highlighted with little glowing white notes.
35 - Vegetarian - grey cat - Indoor office worker
41 - Janitor - rugby player in spare time - child between the ages of 2 and 4
Every person he passed was labeled, unfortunately, for everyone to read. Sometimes a symbol might replace a word - unintelligible - but generally they were completely readable.
And as he came up towards Geddoe, the first that appeared - bright and white and hanging just before the man's face - was Import.
It was the moment of eye contact that caught Geddoe's attention. Most people shied away from him, avoided looking at him because eyepatch. But for the man approaching to actually look him in the face, he had to be different from those around him. Confident, at the very least, but Geddoe had his suspicious. He did the only thing he could - he slowed his pace and gave a curt nod, a single jerk of his head to acknowledge the gaze directed at him.
Friday the 20th, around lunchtime andromynousJanuary 20 2012, 02:22:58 UTC
She hadn't spoken to Sherlock since Watson had left, but if their previous interactions had meant anything, she was sure he couldn't have been doing well. That was why when she spotted him on her lunch break (paper sack from home and cafe latte in hand), she went out of her way to cross the street and flag him down with a wave of the bag.
He turned at the voice, and instantly recognized her, a scowl coming to his lips before he could suppress it. He stopped, waiting for her to run up, eyes narrowing as she did so. Small little white notes appearing around her, detailing every difference since he had seen her at the clinic.
Name, name... What was her name...
Nope, must have deleted it.
But the note "Flirted with John" did hang in the air near her forehead.
Well, he hadn't run in the opposite direction. That was -- better than she'd been expecting? Maybe.
She smiled -- genuinely, for her credit -- as she approached.
"I didn't want to say this over the network, but I'm terribly sorry to hear about John leaving. I know you two were close friends." Of course, she's still going to stick around and want to ask Sherlock how he's coping, though.
20th jan near nightfall technophantomJanuary 20 2012, 04:50:13 UTC
Ghost had been waiting (well, lurking, more like) in Sherlock's living room, lit by the glow of his computer as he sifted correspondences, going through his things because--well honestly because he was a little concerned for Sherlock. Knowing what he did about the fictional analogue from his world gave him some insight on their relationship, on how they appeared to depend on one another.
When he heard the other man, he drew his hands out of the computer, shutting it down immediately, and floated over to inspect the wall of mysteries instead. He had bypassed it initially, figuring it would mean less to him, but his interest was genuine enough.
[Sherlock's correspondence had been little and less of late. None needed with his work at Rossum, the emails with the police force growing more and more strained.
He knew there was someone in the flat - had seen the gentle glimmer of light from the window. But when he came to the door he found it just as he'd left it. No sign of a lock pick or forced entry... That narrowed down the candidates significantly.
Pushing through the door, he made no effort to hid his presence as he trudged up the stairs. He spoke as he walked into the living room.]
[Though even from his tone, it was obvious he wasn't.
He shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on the hook before slipping off his scarf.
He didn't look directly at Ghost. He was overwhelmed enough just walking through the City's streets, and he tossed himself down on the couch with a sigh. He pressed his hands against eachother - fingertip to fingertip, palm to palm.]
Today after school? YEAH THAT'S RIGHT, THIS IS HAPPENINGgatewhatgateJanuary 20 2012, 04:51:06 UTC
[ The Monster was having a no good, dirty rotten very bad day.
He wanted food. Cooked for reals, not the good-hearted but terrible attempts at cooking he made. And so, striding through the City as an actual shadow, he took his umbrella and looked for something to eat. ]
[Sherlock's day was no better, and he was practically smoldering as he walked down the street.
That was, until he saw the umbrella's shadow.
Import. Had to be. But when he looked at it, the only notes that appeared were four white question marks. That was enough to peak his interest, at least for a few seconds. He pulled in front of it and stopped in its path.]
Is the umbrella a necessity to the power, or simply a method of attracting attention to it?
Comments 76
He had brought a bottle of wine, mostly for himself. It was to aid the entertainment and he couldn't trust another man's taste in pinot noir.
Just upon reaching the block, Edward called through his communicator (not his personal number, never that). I'm just outside, he said. Are you ready?
Reply
He shut the communicator off, headed down to the door. He was dressed, at least, prim and posh as he usually was. That phase of the sulking was over. But the cigarette dangling from his lips was new - a retaken addiction that filled the whole flat. He opened the door as Edward approached, but didn't look directly at him.
"Edward." He gestured inside.
Reply
"Redecorating the atmosphere?" The question was poised between sharp, smiling teeth. "Tobacco adds such a pleasant layer."
He followed in, behind Sherlock, careful to leer about in the most inappropriate of manners. He focused on the detail in the hallway, the room, looking at titles of books, any nicks on the furniture, the placement of any mirrors. The floor, for any well-worn carpet -- evidence of pacing. Little delectable hints.
"Do you mind if I hang my jacket?"
Reply
His Porter wall was gone. All that was left was the single note - Porter - Imagination fixated into place with a hunting knife. Tiny little holes dotted the wall, as if hundreds of other pages should be there, but they were gone - only tiny tiny scraps remained, brushed up on the floor. The books were eclectic and varied wildly, a large number of them in doubles. There were four large gashes in the table, and... A strange, peachy smell, lingering lovely, when one walked by the mantle ( ... )
Reply
He stood out from the crowds he shouldered through in his black and gray leather armor with a sword at his side. People tended to shrink out of his way and let him pass. But even tourists had long ago given up mocking or gawking at him. He just sort of existed in this world, and that was fine.
Reply
35 - Vegetarian - grey cat - Indoor office worker
41 - Janitor - rugby player in spare time - child between the ages of 2 and 4
Every person he passed was labeled, unfortunately, for everyone to read. Sometimes a symbol might replace a word - unintelligible - but generally they were completely readable.
And as he came up towards Geddoe, the first that appeared - bright and white and hanging just before the man's face - was Import.
Reply
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"Mr. Holmes!"
Reply
Name, name... What was her name...
Nope, must have deleted it.
But the note "Flirted with John" did hang in the air near her forehead.
Reply
She smiled -- genuinely, for her credit -- as she approached.
"I didn't want to say this over the network, but I'm terribly sorry to hear about John leaving. I know you two were close friends." Of course, she's still going to stick around and want to ask Sherlock how he's coping, though.
Reply
"Nature of the Porter." He said flatly. The fact that it had been fifteen days....
Reply
When he heard the other man, he drew his hands out of the computer, shutting it down immediately, and floated over to inspect the wall of mysteries instead. He had bypassed it initially, figuring it would mean less to him, but his interest was genuine enough.
"Hello, Sherlock."
Reply
He knew there was someone in the flat - had seen the gentle glimmer of light from the window. But when he came to the door he found it just as he'd left it. No sign of a lock pick or forced entry... That narrowed down the candidates significantly.
Pushing through the door, he made no effort to hid his presence as he trudged up the stairs. He spoke as he walked into the living room.]
Ghost.
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[Though even from his tone, it was obvious he wasn't.
He shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on the hook before slipping off his scarf.
He didn't look directly at Ghost. He was overwhelmed enough just walking through the City's streets, and he tossed himself down on the couch with a sigh. He pressed his hands against eachother - fingertip to fingertip, palm to palm.]
I made a mistake.
Reply
He wanted food. Cooked for reals, not the good-hearted but terrible attempts at cooking he made. And so, striding through the City as an actual shadow, he took his umbrella and looked for something to eat. ]
Reply
That was, until he saw the umbrella's shadow.
Import. Had to be. But when he looked at it, the only notes that appeared were four white question marks. That was enough to peak his interest, at least for a few seconds. He pulled in front of it and stopped in its path.]
Is the umbrella a necessity to the power, or simply a method of attracting attention to it?
Reply
Oh, uh, I'm just supposed to stay under the umbrella when I'm outside. ...Do I know you, mister?
Reply
No.
You're world is entirely different from this one, isn't it? [ Because what is a segue. ]
Reply
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