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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
And yet, part of him balked. Irrationally, he found he resisted to the logic, his heart was furiously against such a loss. Though he was unsure if it was because he was against her loss, or the loss of someone who had seen that much.
"You should stay as long as you can," Sherlock said quietly. "It's such a rare gift, and you'll get the chance to experience things no one else can, or will. The idea of all those years ending is just..." He shook his head. "Yes, all things die, but you would be missed. Not only by whoever your current companions are, but by history itself. You should stay, for them, for everyone who wanted to see more, to look past the length of their years."
no subject
"I'm sure I will stay as long as possible, Sherlock. Even now, I find myself curious about the future and where Humanity itself, not to mention Abnormals, will go. I suppose, in my case, our dear friend said it best. Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem." Remember when life’s path is steep to keep your mind even. Horace did have a point. And this path would be incredibly steep. Keeping herself even, well, that would be a challenge.
"I suppose I have been down stranger paths," she said wryly. "And I have been at many a precipice at so many points in my life that I cannot see much of an alternative than to keep time's beat."
no subject
A slight sigh of relief escaped him. He returned the gentle squeeze, actually quite unused to this method of communication, but it seemed to be highly effective in non-verbally communicating ones' feelings.
"You are very lucky, Helen Magnus," he said honestly. "If I were in your shoes, I would certainly look forward to the adventure. As challenging as it may be, the reward is there in every day of the future."
Though he wasn't sure how'd he deal with leaving John behind. No matter, he'd figure it a way to being him along, somehow.
Sherlock had lived most of his adult life without thought to the future, he'd expected the drugs or his general recklessness to take him. He doubted he'd be much long for this world without John Watson. After Mary died, however, he learned just how valuable his life truly was. And how he should not treat it with such carelessness. He wondered though, would he get tired? Would the adventure finally dull, until he'd seen all that there was to see? He doubted that would be for a long time, if he had such an opportunity.
no subject
Her fingers were careful against the curve of his hand, her thumb an absent brush against his knuckle as if she was still attempting to keep herself present. Or him. Or perhaps the both of them. It was a strange thing being so close to the past and yet still in an ever distant present.
"I can't say I see you in any hurry to retire to some country estate with your books and academia," she murmured. "Nor will I, for that matter." Her eyes lit with a soft but contained excitement. "I only wish I could show you my own world. I should think it would be quite the wonder to you, especially Hollow Earth."
no subject
What mad adventures indeed. Perhaps being bored would happen one day. But it would certainly be quite a ride to get there.
"And no, at least, not until I'm so old that I'm forced to sit down all day," he half-snorted. But his eyes lit up at what she had to say next. "I wish I could, too. It sounds fascinating. Wht is 'Hollow Earth,' besides well, the obvious?"
no subject
"It took me one hundred and thirteen years to aid the construction of facilities worldwide, to provide a place of safety for all Abnormal life, to direct funding and support of a facility that combined the technology of the Praxian civilisation that inhabited Hollow Earth in a capacity much like my own to that of the modern era above. Building these ports of safety, these new Hollow Earth Sanctuaries, is quite possibly the best thing to have come out of my life."
She smiled at the Shakespeare and her laugh was a silent one.
"I cannot think of you as old," she said, her cheek pressing a little against his shoulder. Her voice felt as if it came from far away, from some other Helen. "It seems almost a ridiculous notion and yet--"
It made her feel ill in spirit thinking about it, that Sherlock Holmes himself would, too, age into an elderly man. It brought back immediate and painful images of James in his last moments. It still took her breath away and made her falter like a blow to her solar plexus. His was an absence she would grieve for the rest of her life and she thought of him more than she didn't.
"That is not now," she finished. "And you have a good many years ahead of you, I should hope."
no subject
"Faacinating. I really would like to see it, if that were in the realm of possibility." He doubted he'd ever be able to, but it was a nice thought.
He smirked, despite it all. "To be fair, I couldn't really imagine myself as old, either. It's only now I've really started to think I might actually end up old." There's a twinge of shame and awkwardness. Most addicts didn't make it very far. And those that did often had a bad relapse, even twenty years hence, and overdosed. Plus, not to mention the effects all that abuse must have had on his body.
"One should hope," he said quietly.
no subject
"Always hope," she finally murmured.
Always hope until the bitter end and fight and fight and fight.
no subject
"Well, if you insist," he said, with a sad sort of smirk. But it was true. John and Mary were why he was still around. (Mary, to be granted, was a bit complicated in that matter, but her death ensured that he would at least think twice before doing something particularly reckless.) Mycroft was both wrong and right in a way. Sentiment was dangerous, he'd nearly died for them multiple times. But he'd also lived because of them. At least on average, the living won out over the nearly-dying bits.
"I'm not sure if you'd find my world interesting, after all," all this experience with magic and the fantastic, despite his initial hatred of it, was starting to make his world seem a bit boring by comparison. "There's nothing odd about it except the odd interesting case and weird crime. The one person I found wonderfully challenging is dead."
no subject
She closed her eyes.
"Just the one?" she asked softly. "That's a shame."