William Sherlock Scott Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thevictoriandetective) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
lostcarnival2016-12-17 10:09 pm
thevictoriandetective) wrote in lostcarnival2016-12-17 10:09 pm
Entry tags:
Defying Gravity [Open]
Who: Sherlock and YOU
What: In which Sherlock turns green and shiny
Where: Trailer #23, also everywhere else pretty much.
When: After he gets back from the Agent attack
Warnings: Some tiny bit of body horror
A.
Sherlock's annoyed, tired, and for once, entirely looking forward to a proper night's sleep. He wasn't fond of sleeping when he was on his cases, but this wasn't exactly a case, and he found the resistance to be overly dramatic and asked entirely too many questions. Of course he was going to go back, all in all it was interesting even if he was fairly neutral on the whole thing, plus he wanted to figure out how those annoying Agents ticked and play around more with what he could do, like the jumping thing. Still, he learned quite a bit and it wasn't a wash.
How many times has he 'logged in' this week? He couldn't count. He would have slept there overnight again but he wasn't entirely sure the Agents or the Resistance wouldn't somehow find and bother him again, so this was a more prudent action. He fell asleep on his bunk and passed out for twelve hours.
...
The next morning, for some reason, his shower just made him feel tremendously itchy all over. He sat uncomfortably on his bunk with fresh clothes, wondering if somehow he didn't catch bedbugs. With his enormous fluffy roommate he wouldn't be surprised if he brought fleas in or something...still, he tried to go about the rest of his day ignoring the growing uncomfortable itching. He had to get a shift over with first before he could go back to the Matrix, so he had a few hours to kill.
It was only getting worse. He knew it was far more than an ordinary ailment when he ripped off his coat and grabbed a random branch on the ground and tried desperately to scratch at the middle of his back. There wasn't any relief, maybe he should find some salve to--he looked down at where his fingernails were digging into his arm. They were scratching against something hard. Like plastic or a shell, and just as shiny. He peered at his forearm--it was red where he'd been scratching, but when holding it up to the light, it was like there was a pattern. And felt quite hard. And it was sort of iridescent. Green.
Blast. This was what they were talking about, weren't they? The changes. This was ridiculous, he couldn't--the greenish scales--scales, weren't they? That's what they were--were becoming more prominent. And quickly, too. Like he was watching a time-lapse video, the pattern, most green, some brown, some pale not unlike the color of his natural skin tone, were appearing. They linked together, like armor, dulling his sense of touch slightly, but not entirely. Almost like he was wearing a thin glove. Yet, oddly enough, felt more sensitive to temperature, than anything. The itch was disappearing with the arrival of the scales...which were now on his other hand, and he could feel a tickling sensation wash over his face and down his back...
"This cannot be happening." Sherlock didn't care if it was only for a year, this was completely unacceptable, he was human and the world wasn't supposed to work this way and magic was ridiculous and he had to get to a mirror RIGHT NOW--
--he raced back to the trailer he was living in, knocking some things over in his frantic rush and stumbling to the bathroom.
He would be lying if he didn't say his heart just stopped when he saw his reflection.
Scales. All over. Coupled with his fangs he didn't...look human anymore. His face structure remained the same, as it always had been, he was afraid that maybe he'd look even more horrific, but really, how much worse could it get?
He kicked off his shoes, and his feet were just like the rest of him. He could feel it, the way everything felt slightly dulled, the weird way that he could feel where the warmest spot in the room was but he couldn't feel the way clothes slid over the top of his scales.
Sherlock shakily made his way to his bunk and climbed in, and curled up under his big coat, wishing it was all just a dream.
B.
As much as he wished he could, he couldn't stay cooped up in the trailer forever.
It was stupid, he was being stupid. Why should his appearance matter? Only vain idiots would be bothered by this.
Apparently he was a vain idiot then. He spent twenty minutes fixing his hair before going out but there was really no way he could make looking like this any better so he gave up.
A year. He could get through this. Only a year. The fact that he'd just gotten here and he'd have to spend a tremendously long time like this was...not ideal, but logically, it shouldn't matter about what he looked like. It wouldn't affect his work, not really, and the teeth thing was helpful in opening up difficult bags of chips.
Memories of being bullied horribly in school for being different flashed through his mind as he pulled his coat collar up, tried not to meet anyone's eye, and trudged along the path to do his job and maybe get some food.
[OOC: Until I can get some proper art up, imagine he looks something like this without the headfins or this
What: In which Sherlock turns green and shiny
Where: Trailer #23, also everywhere else pretty much.
When: After he gets back from the Agent attack
Warnings: Some tiny bit of body horror
A.
Sherlock's annoyed, tired, and for once, entirely looking forward to a proper night's sleep. He wasn't fond of sleeping when he was on his cases, but this wasn't exactly a case, and he found the resistance to be overly dramatic and asked entirely too many questions. Of course he was going to go back, all in all it was interesting even if he was fairly neutral on the whole thing, plus he wanted to figure out how those annoying Agents ticked and play around more with what he could do, like the jumping thing. Still, he learned quite a bit and it wasn't a wash.
How many times has he 'logged in' this week? He couldn't count. He would have slept there overnight again but he wasn't entirely sure the Agents or the Resistance wouldn't somehow find and bother him again, so this was a more prudent action. He fell asleep on his bunk and passed out for twelve hours.
...
The next morning, for some reason, his shower just made him feel tremendously itchy all over. He sat uncomfortably on his bunk with fresh clothes, wondering if somehow he didn't catch bedbugs. With his enormous fluffy roommate he wouldn't be surprised if he brought fleas in or something...still, he tried to go about the rest of his day ignoring the growing uncomfortable itching. He had to get a shift over with first before he could go back to the Matrix, so he had a few hours to kill.
It was only getting worse. He knew it was far more than an ordinary ailment when he ripped off his coat and grabbed a random branch on the ground and tried desperately to scratch at the middle of his back. There wasn't any relief, maybe he should find some salve to--he looked down at where his fingernails were digging into his arm. They were scratching against something hard. Like plastic or a shell, and just as shiny. He peered at his forearm--it was red where he'd been scratching, but when holding it up to the light, it was like there was a pattern. And felt quite hard. And it was sort of iridescent. Green.
Blast. This was what they were talking about, weren't they? The changes. This was ridiculous, he couldn't--the greenish scales--scales, weren't they? That's what they were--were becoming more prominent. And quickly, too. Like he was watching a time-lapse video, the pattern, most green, some brown, some pale not unlike the color of his natural skin tone, were appearing. They linked together, like armor, dulling his sense of touch slightly, but not entirely. Almost like he was wearing a thin glove. Yet, oddly enough, felt more sensitive to temperature, than anything. The itch was disappearing with the arrival of the scales...which were now on his other hand, and he could feel a tickling sensation wash over his face and down his back...
"This cannot be happening." Sherlock didn't care if it was only for a year, this was completely unacceptable, he was human and the world wasn't supposed to work this way and magic was ridiculous and he had to get to a mirror RIGHT NOW--
--he raced back to the trailer he was living in, knocking some things over in his frantic rush and stumbling to the bathroom.
He would be lying if he didn't say his heart just stopped when he saw his reflection.
Scales. All over. Coupled with his fangs he didn't...look human anymore. His face structure remained the same, as it always had been, he was afraid that maybe he'd look even more horrific, but really, how much worse could it get?
He kicked off his shoes, and his feet were just like the rest of him. He could feel it, the way everything felt slightly dulled, the weird way that he could feel where the warmest spot in the room was but he couldn't feel the way clothes slid over the top of his scales.
Sherlock shakily made his way to his bunk and climbed in, and curled up under his big coat, wishing it was all just a dream.
B.
As much as he wished he could, he couldn't stay cooped up in the trailer forever.
It was stupid, he was being stupid. Why should his appearance matter? Only vain idiots would be bothered by this.
Apparently he was a vain idiot then. He spent twenty minutes fixing his hair before going out but there was really no way he could make looking like this any better so he gave up.
A year. He could get through this. Only a year. The fact that he'd just gotten here and he'd have to spend a tremendously long time like this was...not ideal, but logically, it shouldn't matter about what he looked like. It wouldn't affect his work, not really, and the teeth thing was helpful in opening up difficult bags of chips.
Memories of being bullied horribly in school for being different flashed through his mind as he pulled his coat collar up, tried not to meet anyone's eye, and trudged along the path to do his job and maybe get some food.
[OOC: Until I can get some proper art up, imagine he looks something like this without the headfins or this
no subject
Well. Thank you, I suppose.
Fun Fact; apparently it's rude in Japan to say 'you're welcome' to certain things...
There is no need. [DAMN HIS HONOR AND THE SIDE EFFECT OF NEVER SAYING 'YOU'RE WELCOME'-] However...
[Mmm.] It would be wise to put a request in to the resident tailor as well, for warmer clothing.
Sherlock be all: I am finally polite and you don't say you're welcome? TT^TT
I'll do that. Or I'll end up lethargic or falling asleep on nighttime patrols.
On second thought, maybe that's a good thing.
IT WOULD BE -DISHONORABLE- TO ADMIT SUCH PRIDE!!
So long as you do not allow it to reach the level of our warden...
no subject
What, pray tell, does our warden do to warrant that kind of response?
no subject
...he typically prefers to sit out and nap.
[It........can be annoying.]
no subject
Wonderful.
It's nice to know everyone's safe.
no subject
...but when it comes to handling an over-abundance of soot sprites, or similar, it 'isn't worth it', apparently.
[It's. Annoying.]