Friday, December 16th, The Midnight Channel

[thepull_mods]

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 Here
Warnings: Please Put 'em In the Subject Lines As Necessary, Kids?

Comments

Warnings: Drug abuse

[caveatwalls]

Before the screen completely adjusts, the blare of an orchestra of chimes and discordant strings causes jagged edges in the snowy reception. It is calculated music, though, designed for making the ears bleed and the heart pound. When the violins pause in an uneasy lull, the screen turns to black. A lighter flares in the darkness, igniting the cherry tip of a cigarette

[sittingtype]

John might not be working at the moment, but he's still keeping to the odd hours attributed with that graveyard shift. He's spending his time productively, typing up his notes from the Luis case in the living room by the time midnight rolls around. The TV's on in the background and was broadcasting late night crap telly prior to twelve am, but the volume's muted while he works

[caveatwalls]

Sherlock is sitting in his armchair, comfortably hugging his legs, not working either. Unlike John, he's found the Midnight Channel fascinating up until now. Was it another effect of the Darkness? If so, how did it get all this information on people? Once twelve rolled around, he'd unmute it. As it turned out, the channel did it for him. The music was certainly different from the usual, and yet somehow familiar. Then the lights come up.

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.

[sittingtype]

John closes his laptop as the show concludes on his NV and on the television set, plunging the flat into an awkward, tension-filled silence. Rather than catching him, John can feel Sherlock's eyes boring into him from across the room and he looks up, meeting his gaze and wetting his lips.

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."

[caveatwalls]

"No." No one knew about that part of his past here. No one. John was the only one with a hint of it, and Sherlock wishes that wasn't the case. Partially because he knows John would judge him for it, partially because John is part of his life that excludes his old ways. Difficult as that can be.

"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.

[sittingtype]

John remembers when the topic was brought up. Back then, it was absurd to consider a man as brilliant as Sherlock could have succumbed to such a terrible, potentially crippling addiction like that one, as brief as it was to consider before the thread of conversation inevitably returned to Jennifer Wilson.

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?"

[caveatwalls]

For Sherlock, it wasn't crippling, it was just... coping. Coping and a bit of a thrill. But he wasn't getting into that argument right now. It would only make the temptation greater. He's grateful that John doesn't press, at least not for the moment.

"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."

[sittingtype]

Crippling and coping; that's where their opinions would split and differentiate. Addiction wasn't something he came across often, not as a locum in general practitioning, but he's seen what it can do and nothing's a better example than the shell of the man transmitted over the Midnight Channel.

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."

[caveatwalls]

Sherlock stands up and looks around for his coat. This isn't something he can let sit, not now.

"It'll be waiting out there. I have to get rid of it."

[sittingtype]

"What? Sherlock, no."

John reaches for his crutches and starts to haul himself up from the couch.

[caveatwalls]

"Don't. I can take care of it. It's just... a shadow."

Blackheath whines and looks between them with confusion. Sherlock nudges the dog toward John.

[sittingtype]

"You'll take care of it?"

John is incredulous and, for probably the first time since they got him, doesn't pay any heed to Blackheath.

[caveatwalls]

"It's just another monster," Sherlock sighs. He's not so sure if that's strictly true.

"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."

[sittingtype]

Somewhat predictably, John doesn't agree with him on that - this is all very reminiscent of invasion of the body snatchers and, unlike the creatures they've fought before, this one has a distinct difference: it has his face. He thinks he has lived with his friend long enough to tell when Sherlock feels baited by something.

"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.

[caveatwalls]

The thing has done plenty already. It's shaken Sherlock Holmes to the core, something not easily done, something he is not equipped to handle. His only possible response is to cut it off at the source. Things don't come back to haunt him. They happen and he moves on.

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.

ring ring

[remembered]

After not receiving so much as a "leave me alone" text, Amy decided the only person who could provide her with an answer was John (and was probably the better alternative to flooding Sherlock with messages). She just needed to know that they were both okay -- that hopefully whatever was about to happen wouldn't aggravate their recent injuries. Or make news ones. Either way, there's not too much she can do at the moment. She's still out in the baseball field as she dials out and waits for somebody to answer their NV. Come on, John. Pick up.