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)
lostcarnival2017-05-15 10:43 am
thevictoriandetective) wrote in lostcarnival2017-05-15 10:43 am
Entry tags:
In a new light
Who: Sherlock and OPEN
What: New changes and video game munchies
When: Very late Day 97
Where: Cookhouse
Warnings: Mentions of drugs, suicide.
Dying made one hungry.
Sherlock was prone to being over dramatic, and would gladly tell anyone who inquired that yes, he was killed three times in the game and yes, for a second there he really thought he was going to end up nullified or actually dead. Being quite pleased that he wasn't a digital slug or dead, he found himself famished and in the mood for something dreadfully unhealthy and/or sweet.
Toby was exhausted and fell asleep back at the trailer (or was mad at him for thinking he really did die), so Sherlock was alone when he went to the Cookhouse.
He went to grab a basket of chips (fries) and a milkshake when it hit him. He'd noticed something strange with his vision when he came back, seeing faint blotches like if he'd looked in the sun for too long or something, but he assumed it had something to do with being in the game, some lingering side effect. He would only be worried if it remained for any length of time. What he didn't expect was a blast of orange and red when he looked into the kitchen.
He shut his eyes immediately, confused, and was shocked that he could still see it. He could see shapes of people, registering as different shades of red and orange, fading to yellow and green. The walls only mitigated some of it, he could see through them, too. It extended nearly as far as his natural vision, but faded into blank nothingness further on. It was heat. Obviously. He couldn't exactly see objects that didn't give off heat. But any heat residue left, was visible, like quickly fading handprints.
"Fascinating," he muttered, opening his eyes again. The effect was fainter coupled with his ordinary vision, giving a slight glow to anything that gave off heat. It was disorienting and off-putting and, quite frankly, neat.
What: New changes and video game munchies
When: Very late Day 97
Where: Cookhouse
Warnings: Mentions of drugs, suicide.
Dying made one hungry.
Sherlock was prone to being over dramatic, and would gladly tell anyone who inquired that yes, he was killed three times in the game and yes, for a second there he really thought he was going to end up nullified or actually dead. Being quite pleased that he wasn't a digital slug or dead, he found himself famished and in the mood for something dreadfully unhealthy and/or sweet.
Toby was exhausted and fell asleep back at the trailer (or was mad at him for thinking he really did die), so Sherlock was alone when he went to the Cookhouse.
He went to grab a basket of chips (fries) and a milkshake when it hit him. He'd noticed something strange with his vision when he came back, seeing faint blotches like if he'd looked in the sun for too long or something, but he assumed it had something to do with being in the game, some lingering side effect. He would only be worried if it remained for any length of time. What he didn't expect was a blast of orange and red when he looked into the kitchen.
He shut his eyes immediately, confused, and was shocked that he could still see it. He could see shapes of people, registering as different shades of red and orange, fading to yellow and green. The walls only mitigated some of it, he could see through them, too. It extended nearly as far as his natural vision, but faded into blank nothingness further on. It was heat. Obviously. He couldn't exactly see objects that didn't give off heat. But any heat residue left, was visible, like quickly fading handprints.
"Fascinating," he muttered, opening his eyes again. The effect was fainter coupled with his ordinary vision, giving a slight glow to anything that gave off heat. It was disorienting and off-putting and, quite frankly, neat.
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Helen blinked at the intensity of it for a moment and pulled away but not away. She gestured lightly.
"I'd say this is a multiple cup conversation. Tea?"
Her smile wavered a little but she smiled nonetheless.
"Shall I call you Mr Holmes or Sherlock?"
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A look down at his cup, and another smirk, before he looked back up again.
"Sherlock, please."
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Sherlock it was.
She was bringing him tea after the milkshake, to warm him back up, and more for herself. Helen did the honours and brought cream and sugar out of habit before fixing her own cup.
"How is your vision, now?" she asked.
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"Better, actually. I think my brain's catching up."
Which wasn't necessarily a good thing. It could mean his brain just got more snake-like. It would probably just further cement his beastial instincts, or add new ones. Snakes were simple creatures though, but that simplicity was his downfall. He wasn't necessarily afraid of losing his intellect, his memories were fine, and the veterans here didn't seem to have a problem. He just didn't like the idea of something, even if only subtly, influencing him.
Of course, this also was a man who called himself an addict, so...
"It's still odd, though. Everything warm has a glow."
He didn't really have much of a glow. It was kind of disconcerting, it only further served to remind him how different he was than most everyone else.
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She settled at his elbow as she had before and leant back in her chair to enjoy her tea properly, without hurry or care, as if nothing outside their conversation really mattered at all. Helen took a breath and then smiled after a moment or two of contemplation.
"It sounds beautiful, Sherlock, but I find that most odd things are."
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He reached over to take the sugar for his tea, but he was distracted by the infrared glow of the kitchen, when the oven was opened. He knocked the cubes over with his hand and sent them flying across the table.
In a split second, his forked tongue shot out, catching the cubes in mid-air and yanking them back.
Whoops--embarrassed, though slightly pleased at the speed--he spat the cubes back into his tea and furiously tried to sip it like he'd totally meant to do all of that.
"Sorry," came a mumble.
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"We mustn't waste the sugar cubes, after all."
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"To be fair, flies are much more unpredictable than the trajectory of sugar cubes," he said, though another snort. He couldn't help the cascade of giggles, mostly from the sheer absurdity of it all. Of course he'd just snatch them out of the air with his tongue, because that was a perfectly ordinary thing to do.
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Snake or not, he still had a serious sweet tooth. His tastes had fallen towards meat products, but he still enjoyed anything sweet. And chips, of course.
"Ugh, what wouldn't I give for tea from home. Whatever world we go to next, we must remember to pick up some tea."
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"Ah, Sherlock," she added, "I did manage to find some Royal British Breakfast. It's back at my trailer if you can't wait, but yes, I agree completely. Tea should be acquired at any stop, really, and in sizable quantities."
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"Mm, that would be lovely, but it should be rationed. Perhaps when we're feeling ridiculously nostalgic," he said, even though his tone was amused, it was still slightly sad. He didn't really like being away from London all that much. Maybe someday, if he ever got too old (if he made it to old age, which he doubted, but who knew), he perhaps would move to the country and keep bees or something. But he wondered if that would be too boring.
Maybe not when it came to bees. They were never boring.
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"Not when you can remember the sights and sounds and tastes of things you haven't had for years already. In the end, it's not the tea that really matters," Helen said and if a voice could be bittersweet, hers was, "it is who you're sitting with."
Her sip of tea was a little longer this time but still not hurried.
"I'll make a pot as we've two wholly different Londons to discuss."
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He looked down at his own cup when she said that, suddenly quite missing John, and even Mrs. Hudson. Molly Hooper, Lestrade... Even Mycroft's annoying voice would have been quite welcome. He had built his own little family...somehow, and even though it certainly didn't compare to the pain of hundred-year-old memories, he still missed them.
"Indeed," his baritone voice said, more sympathetic than he'd expected it to sound.
He raised the cup a little in acknowledgment. "London. Have you been there recently?"
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Perhaps she should have made another pot. She shook her head a little at how quickly time could pass. All those proteges, all of her friends, the people who had come and gone in her life, so many of them. But enough of that, Sherlock had a question.
"I have been to London on and off throughout the years but not as recently as I now wish I had. I am not entirely sure when I'll get back there as events have rather pushed me in a new direction," she said, her tone thoughtful.
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"Your longevity," he murmurs quietly, his brows furrowing in sympathy. "How do you even let yourself make friends, when you'll just leave them behind?" He was curious, because if he was in her place, he wasn't sure that he ever could. It would hurt too much, and lonliness was a much more familiar, duller pain than the cost of watching a friend die. He ought to know, he'd seen it happen first hand.
"Well, I'm not so sure how similar our worlds are, but I suspect they aren't too different," he said over a sip, equally thoughtful.
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She smiles and it is with no small touch of sorrow.
"I am richer and fuller for what they have given me be it knowledge or their compassion, their drive. My friends, some my lovers, some I have yet to lay to rest in the proper way, and some I have yet to begin to mourn. But they matter, each and every one of them and I would not be myself without them in my life."
Her fingers around her cup tightened slightly as she took a breath and set the cup down.
"It is difficult," she said, "to have a great deal of emotion and to have to put that away when you must. Taking it out again is as equally difficult but you must because without it, you deny yourself a critical element of life and of living."
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There was a point in his life where he would have considered that a pinnacle of achievement. That it was something to hope for, to strive for. People--John, really--called him a machine.
And he pretended he didn't care. Because what was more important was the Work. Stopping Moriarty. If he had to field a few hurt feelings, it was an acceptable loss. He completely failed to take into consideration how devastated John became because of his actions, and he'd spent...oh, ever since, really, atoning for it. And after Eurus, after seeing what he could have been...
Maybe emotion really did mess with his reasoning process. Sentiment got in the way. It wasn't an advantage.
But Helen...she was right.
Blast, how could she do it? He was devastated when Mary died. But what Helen just said gave him an inordinate amount of hope that the healing that he was still doing would result in something positive. That the jagged scar her presence left behind would become a badge of honor, a memorial.
He just stared at Helen for a long moment, examining her words, viewing them from all angles, until it sank deep in his own heart.
"It is difficult to have a great deal of emotion and to have to put that away when you must. Taking it out again is as equally difficult but you must because without it, you deny yourself a critical element of life and of living."
That was it. Right there.
He had built his entire life around protecting his heart, trying to quell his enormous amount of emotion, to do anything to avoid feeling the hurt and pain that inevitably came with it. Helen embraced it, she seemed to know exactly the kind of pain that would inevitably come, and she went ahead and did it anyway.
"You're a braver person than I," he said quietly, with admiration.
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Her hand found his carefully, almost delicately, still warm from the tea as she cut herself off. What was it? Experience? Did it matter? In many ways, she was very much like Sherlock herself, like James and Nikola, too. But her compassion won in the end, only sometimes, she needed help.
"Have you met Will Zimmerman?" she asked quietly.
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He closed his eyes a moment, but the infrared did not disappear. The world turned strange, a glowing universe that he'd never expect to see. He opened his eyes again, his reptilian gaze surprisingly human.
"You're here, you've carried on. That is bravery."
A shake of his head. "Your colleague? He's here?"
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"Ashley died for me," Helen said in the softest voice. "I watched her make that choice, I watched her break the conditioning the Cabal had given her, Sherlock, knowing I sent her there and that what she became was my fault. In the end, in that moment, she saved my life. Ashley chose her end but I couldn't accept it, not really. I tortured myself for weeks checking our systems, trying to find her, hoping she was out there somewhere, still alive. And in the end, I buried an empty coffin with the knowledge that if I had just said no--"
Helen shook her head.
"Your friend loved you," she said, her voice almost a whisper, "and my daughter loved me. We grieve and maybe we don't let go of it, Sherlock, but we must live for them because that's what they've asked us to do. So, maybe that means we have to be brave even if we take five steps back for every one forward."
Helen doesn't notice thew few scattered tears or if she does, she pretends they aren't there. It's a long while after that she find words, a long while to reorient herself.
"He's here," she said, "and he is my moral compass. He's why I'm still here. You have John and I have Will. They keep us human, they keep us moving toward the future whatever that may be."
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He probably would have completely lost the plot if he had been in her shoes. His hand gripped hers tightly, wishing he could do something, say something, that would change things. He was powerless to do anything except listen. But maybe that was the important thing he could do right now.
Mary's loss roared in his heart again, and he felt that old sorrow make its way home. Her sacrifice, he once said, had conferred a value on his life. It is a currency I do not know how to spend, he told John. Mary's death constantly reminded him to refrain from being so reckless (even though sometimes he ignored this. Okay, a lot of times.)
"You are incredibly wise," he found himself saying. "I can't begin to imagine the pain you must have felt, but the fact that you're still here...I am glad." He really was. It had been fortuitous to meet her, because maybe he needed someone to tell him all of this.
"John wouldn't call himself my moral compass," he said with a slight, sad smirk. "But he doesn't realize how he makes me want to be a better person."
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She was afraid because, in his own world, Sherlock was himself. Wholly and without question, alive. Who was she to tell him that in her universe, the man she had loved, her dearest friend, was the basis for their own Sherlock Holmes? There were differences, of course, the fact that the Sherlock she sat with now was not and never had been from the Victorian age but he was still Sherlock. And sometimes, her heart ached more than a little when they spoke.
Her head fell companionably against his shoulder while she sorted herself out. Wise? Helen smiled and almost told him to take that back. She was too frightened of losing people to be wise, even if she kept lurching on into infinity like this. Her fingers pressed back and she could feel them creak under the strain until she consciously relaxed them.
"You are, too," she reminded him in a slightly strained voice, "and I find myself in your friend's debt as well." Her eyebrows arched and she let out a soft laugh. "Will wouldn't call himself that, either, but I asked him to be." Helen's voice was wry at best. "The value of our closest friends is that they do make us want to be better people even when we believe we are anything but deserving of it."
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He found that Helen herself had succeeded in grounding himself, as well. He needed that more than ever here, especially with how easily humanity could get twisted and lost in a Fae Carnival, where one's very self was unrecognizable. He feared he would become as cold hearted as what was suggested by what he looked like.
He froze slightly, when she leaned against him, unused to close contact with pretty much anyone. Not that he drew away, in fact, despite what people assumed by his abrasive personality, he wasn't put off by such things. People just tended to stay away from him. It only served to remind him that yes, he'd actually managed not to scare off somebody else. That he actually managed to make a friend.
"What will you do, when you've moved on? Time wise, I mean," he said thoughtfully. He was genuinely curious, he'd never been able to have a conversation about an immortal's habits before. His manner may have been a bit blunt, however, not taking into consideration the emotions involved in such a question.
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She sagged a little.
"I will have a long time," she said, her voice suddenly weighed and weary, "to think about that. A very long time and a great many pots of tea. I wonder if he will let go when it is time but too, I wonder if I will."
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