ataraxionlogs | Like the fella once said, ain't that a kick in the head?

[ He wants his gun back. It's his first thought when the door of the brig is swung open and he's set free, and given how angry Jim is with him, he really doesn't trust him to keep it for longer than necessary.

So Jim's room is his first stop. A quick check tells that the coast is clear, but he hesitates. Facing Jim isn't exactly something he's clamoring to do. It takes him a moment of hovering outside the door, but he finally knocks, preparing for the worst. ]

[ And it's opened, opened and forgotten like an afterthought.

It's very right of him to be cautious, but he doesn't quite snap once he appears. He's letting it stall. There isn't much to tell from a glance, carrying on his business with the quiet flip of a page. Flipping through—oh, what do you know? The Dynamics of an Asteroid.

Of course he would.

He clears out of the way, casually finding himself circling around the room. Distracted and easily setting Sebastian Moran as the lowest of his priorities. ]

Were you seen?

[ On the way here, he means. He's still focused on the book, fingers spidering over the text. ]

[ He knows better than to relax just because Jim doesn't strike on sight. Moriarty is a clever man and even if he appears docile, Moran doesn't trust it. He closes the door himself and stands rigidly near it, ready to leave when his gun is in his hands. ]

No. Not that I know of.

[ He lets a short stream of silence settle between them, watching Jim Moriarty circle the room with the familiar book in hand, vaguely wondering how interesting he's finding the Professor's work, but not really wanting to ask. Clenching his hands, he clears his throat to break the silence. ]

I've just come to retrieve my gun.

[ And that's when Moriarty strikes him across the face.

Apparently that comment was just enough, easily drawing his attention and bubbling up his mood in one go. The book is closed at this point, drumming the rough surface as he spins around. He eventually waves his hand, letting the burning sting wear off. ]

Christ, you would think after playing the nice guy... "watch my rifle for me, won't you, Jim?" "Oh, sounds swell. I'll gladly do that for you." [ JAZZ HANDS FOR YOU, BUDDY.

He's playing out the scenario with the chirpiness of his voice, continuing his circling motion as it is difficult to still himself. ]

A little respect is nice, just a tad. I've been running low on that lately, Dumbastian Moron. It's not too difficult to watch one's footing, but you just stumble on your own two feet.

A. Walking. Hazard.

[ Moran could have anticipated for that slap all he wanted, but he would never really be prepared. He's left with a red face and a dumbfounded expression. He would retaliate--should retaliate, but something holds him back and forces him to refrain and listen, maybe take the man's words into real consideration for once.

The name calling doesn't hurt. After all, he's been called worse--and from family members, none the less! What does hurt is that Moriarty thinks so little of Sebastian and his, in his opinion, incredibly useful and fine-tuned abilities. It's possibly the worst feeling he's ever had the displeasure of feeling, including a tiger's claws to the chest. He clenches his teeth, almost wincing until Jim's last word is out. ]

I've respect in spades-- [ He halts and backtracks. If he had his way, he would go on to pin the blame on Jim for not giving him any way to show that respect, but that isn't the right way to approach this at all. ] I don't suppose there's any way I can redeem myself in your eyes?

[ He's upset.

He's legitimately upset and there's no fun in that. He tends to have those moments that sends him off in chain of bad decisions. Perhaps he will rid of the problem, forgotten one spine-tingling way or another. Done and gone. The headache releases it's pressure and life goes on.

He's upset and there isn't much he can do about it. Not here, anyways.

It's at this moment Jim Moriarty recalls his vulnerability. He could do without Sebastian Moran, god, he did just fine without him. But it's better to keep the ammunition even if it hiccups at times—okay, a lot. There have been many conversations much like this, rambly one-sided conversations soaring way over his head, the kind that pleads and expects Jim to bat his eyes and coo "it's fine, my dear. I forgive you." You can guess how often that actually works.

But it's very odd to hear that question: "I don't suppose there's any way I can redeem myself in your eyes?"

( Especially from a poor sod like Sebastian Moran. This version, anyways. )

The annoyance barely settles from his expression, but he finally looks back. There isn't any opening for redemption in his eyes, but he says: ]

You don't. [ He simply makes his way to the closet and the rifle is placed into his hands moments later. It was very close to becoming a shove. ] Any other mistakes will make it difficult for showing off in the future, Colonel. You would be dead before I give you your first shot.

[ A beat. ] Your first shot other than a kitten's shoulder, at least that.

[ There are several possible and perfectly reasonable responses floating around in Sebastian's mind. 'I was watching her, like you asked', 'she was asking for it', 'at least you understand that I haven't been bluffing about my shot now', 'you might have done the same if you weren't the Irish offshoot of such a bitter old sausage'.

But he doesn't reach for any of them. Finally, he's beginning to realize that he's grossly underestimated Jim. He's seen hints of it before, but never enough to change his thinking entirely, but now it's really seeping in. Deep under the Irish accent and bizarrely flamboyant personality, he is the Professor. And he has that same ability to drain all the warmth from the room with one threat. Now Moran knows how it has to be. It's back to editing his behavior purely for the sake of continuing to have a use--and to continue breathing. Fun, fun, fun.

He holds his tongue. No shot at redemption, then, but Jim returns the gun anyway and...seemingly offers one unspoken last chance? Moran quickly inspects the gun when it's all but shoved into his hands, and he's almost surprised to find it unharmed, still loaded with the remaining ammunition from his round on the shooting range. He fully expected some harm to have come to it while he was in the brig. ]

Thank you.

[ He hardly means it. He just wants this conversation to end so he can high tail it out of the room. ]

Anything more?

[ God, don't let there be anything more. He already feels like a child being lectured like this. ]

[ He could easily bark back 'there's a difference between watching and befriending, but you put yourself in that situation,' 'that doesn't mean you go right for it,' 'you wouldn't be here if I thought you were bluffing,' 'what does me being Irish have to do with anything? Dimwit.'

Instead, he simply watches the rifle inspection without much of a change in expression. Still pissy as before, almost a hiss every time he chooses to speak: ]

Welcome. [ He's holding back another smack. ]

Yes, have you ever had to use a cane, Moran? [ It's back to 'Moran' for now. ]

[ Moran gnashes his teeth together, fully expecting that second smack. He's genuinely surprised when it doesn't come, and he's presented with a question instead. He grows suspicious in an instant, unsure as to if he's being threatened or not, and makes a mental note not to go walking near any swimming pools. ]

Not as a walking stick, but back in London, the firm has what we call basement cases. Client can't pay, we take 'em down to the basement and they get a nice wallop for their troubles. [ He's particularly fond of basement cases. ]

Interesting, quite a story there.

[ W o w. ]

Not what I was looking for, but I realized in some time using that rifle of yours won't be the easiest. This place being more cramped than it seems, you need to blend in. Job or not.

And that's where I am. Planning out a new toy for you, can you deal with that? Might do nicely with your... hat.

Ain't it just?

[ He can sense that sarcasm, man. So you get sarcasm in return. Until more suspicion hits him at full force and he has to back down again. You'll never take his guns from him, pal. No comment on the hat comment. ]

The other Colonel Moran had a piece of kit like what you're talking.

[ He can't say he was envious. ]

I can deal, but may I make a request?

[ God, he's just asking for it.

... And yet, he continues with his contribution to the conversation, putting on a face of thoughtfulness. Somewhat. Not really. He's already 99.9% done with this. ] And what would that be?

[ Don't worry. He's been done since you slapped him. He just has the inherent need to put this request in for the sake of his own future enjoyment. ]

I'm not terribly fond of silencers on firearms. Would asking for a lack of one be an issue?

Yes, so no.

[ Space cricket chirps... ]

[ ...s i g h. ]

Can't be choosy. Thank you for the consideration. [ EVEN THO YOU DIDN'T CONSIDER IT AT ALL!!! ]

[ Being struck by Professor Moriarty is one thing. Moran has earned that several times, but being struck by his tiny Irish equivalent...it's just...embarrassing. He doesn't think it will bruise, but the pain sticks with him long after he's returned his gun to his own cabin. He could really use a stiff drink, so on his way to Space Babylon it is. ]

[ Wichita's bar tending--sort of, she has a sling at least--and Brendan was leaving after a brief stint and making sure she's alright. It's the over protective side, the easily jealous side, the many things Brendan has in terms of negative qualities.

He has his hands stuck in his pockets, slouched over, wondering what to do next when he spots it and let's instinct take over.

Hello, Moran. Have a 17 year old tackle you to the ground and proceed to beat you. ]

[ Moran hadn't been aware that it was Wichita's night to tend to the bar. In fact, he's hardly though about Wichita or her shoulder at all since shooting her. He'd sent her a message on his way out of the brig, just to let her know that he hasn't forgotten and he'd be more than willing to make her other shoulder match if she annoys him again, but hardly an inkling beyond that. His mind has, however, flitted every now and again to her friends. She has several who are, without a doubt, incredibly angry with him, but he isn't so worried by them that he keeps on his toes the way he does around Moriarty.

Which is obviously a mistake. Before he's even reached the door of the obnoxiously loud bar, he's been knocked off his feet. He doesn't recognize Brendan, but based on his age, he's clearly one of those friends. Moran is a strong man, but Brendan is quick and he's already given Sebastian a few more than sufficient punches to the face before he can push him off. On top of Moriarty's slap, that is most certainly going to bruise. When he clambers to his feet, he's angry and snarling. ]

Claws to yourself, eh? She had it coming to her.

[ With a bruise gradually blooming across the side of his face, Sebastian's plans have changed. His jaw aches like hell, and while he knows he can grin and bear it, he's had his jaw dislocated too many times to risk it when medical help is available.

Surely a third punch isn't in his future, right? Right? God, his head is pounding too much to even think about it. ]

_{[ Sherlock doesn't walk the length of this ship often enough - and when he does, it's to get out of the room that suffocates and strangles him more often than anything else. Generally speaking, he never meets anyone on these travels - he wants to be alone, and just because he's out of his room, it doesn't mean he's feeling particularly social. No, it's because he needs 'fresh air', as fresh as air can be when on a spaceship.

It's infuriating, really. He hasn't felt the wind on his face for months, and it always feels as though it's been longer; he feels trapped and caged like an animal, knowing that the only time he'll be set free is either when he's dead or he's sent home.

Neither prospect sounds particularly inviting.

For some reason, his legs have begun taking him towards medbay - it's not something Sherlock agreed nor actively planned, and he honestly refuses to look further into why he'd be going that way. It's complex, and Sherlock doesn't want to deal with complex right now, not when it's about any and all Johns. Really, things would have been simpler if he'd stayed on that horrible island, but that's a thought he regrets having already. Nothing is better on that island, it's just more complicated, which in turn, lead to things being incredibly intricate and layered in ways Sherlock had never previously considered.

He really should be looking where he's going, but it's come to the point of sleep deprivation in which Sherlock is seeing without actually seeing; he's walking forwards, absolutely lost within his own head at the prospect of - well, everything. ]}

[ Walking the length of the ship is much more Moran's past-time. He isn't an expert on the massive area yet, but he's walked the basic hallways and beyond more than enough to know where the important areas are. Even when he's terribly disoriented, muscle memory allows him adequate navigation of the corridors.

But that doesn't mean he's paying attention. A great deal of his walk is being spent just trying to calm down and not fly into a rage. That would be a mistake, after all. He's been shamed by having earned Moriarty's scorn. Back home, he has the Professor's trust and--dare he say it?--respect, but with Jim, he has none of that. It's utterly frustrating: one step up and two steps back every time he even speaks to the man, and now he's been pushed right back to the beginning again. Then there's the shiner given to him by Brendan. He's just plain angry about that. There's no way he should have allowed himself to be roughed up by a teenager half his size and more than half his age, but it all boils right back down to Moriarty. He's out of chances. Shooting Wichita had been his last strike. One more flub and (Jim's made it clear) he's dead.

It takes Sebastian an embarrassingly long moment to realize who is wandering in his direction. It doesn't even really hit him until he's collided shoulders with the other gentleman, and he's still so angry with himself that he doesn't particularly care right now. Dead or alive, Sherlock Holmes is Jim's business. Not his, not the Professor's, not worth an apology. ]

Edited 2012-10-29 06:41 (UTC)

_{[ Sherlock has Jim's respect, and honestly, it's not something Moran should so actively seek out. Being on that list isn't enough for him any more; they're locked into a fight of the ages and Sherlock has to make sure he doesn't let anything slip, needs to make sure he's not high when he's around Jim because it would end in disaster and he knows it. So he's pushed the drugs away and forced himself to sober up, allowing his mind to slowly catalogue every corridor he slips down in order to build up a complete map, but it's slow work and incredibly time consuming. He needs to be left alone, to be allowed to drag in the data he's making sure to categorise with each step.

This means, unfortunately, that he's incredibly on edge and absolutely wired - with no drugs calming him down, he's frustrated and he's jittery. Considering Sherlock's moods as of late, Moran bumping into him isn't a particularly clever decision (he should have seen him coming, that's why he needs to be more careful, needs to walk these halls with John - he's so used to being told when something's happening, so used to John walking beside him and warning him long before it happens that he's grown compliant. Alone is what he has, and alone is what protects him indeed. It's time to take his own advice). Sherlock isn't as well adjusted as usual, it's been months of goddesses and forced intercourse coupled by curses, and now he's here, he's in space, and everything happens to quickly here - from strange worlds made of mist and snipers all the way to genuine hallucinations that scare him far more than he'd ever like to admit.

He's jumpy, and he has been ever since he arrived here. He can't help it, he's tried to control it, but it's difficult when he's not sure how to make it stop, when it's always dislodging the very way he thinks and moves - it's too much, and yet, there's nothing he can do.

It's Moran's unlucky day, because the moment their shoulders collide, Sherlock leans back to put every ounce of force into the punch he intends to deliver to his 'attackers' face - it's automatic, a genuine moment of an unsure man lashing out against someone who's too close, will always be too close, he can feel him breathing and it's too much, get away. ]}

[ Oh--good god, really? Sherlock's puch isn't quite within the same gauge of surprise that Moriarty's slap, but there is no way Moran could have expected it. While he hasn't exactly steered clear of any of the Sherlocks, he feels he hasn't done anything to any of them to deserve that punch. Not quite as much as the punch from Brendan, at least. Already dazed and slightly off guard, he had been bothering no one. ]

What the deuce, man?!

[ His voice comes out in a growl and for once in his life, he's too surprised to retaliate in his same Basher Moran manner. He makes a few feeble swings in what he thinks is Sherlock's direction, but in the end, he really just has to calm down and clutch his pounding head in his hands. ]

_{[ He'd apologise if it were anyone else, he really would. It takes him a moment, a quiet, steadying drag of breath that he hopes works, because god, he's didn't ask for any of these hang ups, he really didn't. He bites down on his tongue and forces himself to pay attention, to dodge every lazy hit aimed his way, to deflect and to shift out of the firing line (it's fine, Moran is clumsy as he tries to attack, pain radiating from his head and making it impossible for him to concentrate. Today is not the first time he's been physically hit, and for a moment, Sherlock hesitates before he sticks his chin up, before he forces himself to act as arrogant as it's possible to act when he feels the exact opposite. God, it feels like he's shaking, but he's not, he refuses to look put out by this, refuses to be anything other than a cold calculating mask that's sneering at the mere idea of hurting Moran when he deserves it, because he does, he does.

Control has always been so easy, but it takes so much effort to reign his temper in this time - he's shocked, he's angry and he's so close to punching him again, just to make sure he's nowhere near his personal space, because Sherlock can't cope with that right now, hasn't been able to cope with it for months. He's a wreck, an absolute wreck, and he hates it. Just how weak has he become over these past few months? Apparently weak enough to feel genuine fear whenever someone's close enough to touch him, the type where his pulse is pounding and his blood is running cold; but he holds it in and swallows it down.

He may be weak, but he's not stupid.

Thankfully, when he talks, his voice is steady and low - just the right amount of threatening and coldness, just enough to keep any questions aimed his way, just enough to push everything back and look at it through a pointedly scientific viewpoint. ]}

Your presence has evidently been pissing off a few people today.

_{[ He pauses, looks up towards the ceiling and oh, his voice is so cold when he next speaks. ]} Good.

[ Moran fights to scrape together some semblance of dignity through the pain. He forces himself upright, blinks away stars forming before his eyes, and stops swinging without hitting his target like an idiot. Self control. It's always been difficult for him, but he desperately needs to maintain it. He's already walking on paper thin ice with Moriarty, so even when the worst of the pain has subsided and he can see straight again and Sherlock is right there within his reach, he knows he can't strike him. It would just cause another scene.

God, just hearing the man speak tries his patience. His hands curl into fists at his sides and he clenches his teeth, but he makes no move. This is going to be difficult. ]

It seems I can add you to that list, Mr. Holmes.

[ Y e a h, you have a bruised, very irritated Victorian wandering in. Proceed. ]

{OOC| Tag this as you two please. I know you both wanted to catch him, so either way, he's in the medbay.}

[ For a long moment Sherlock can't be bothered to look up from his microscope, attention fixed on the glowing projection of a screen before him with fingers steepled against his lips. He follows the peaks and valleys of the HMNR graphs with his eyes, leaning forward at one point to drag two graphs to the forefront and expand them with his fingers before setting an overlay. For a man new to this technology, he appears to be catching on quickly -- not that it's much a surprise. Besides, this is just fun.

After a few minutes pass he finally deems Sebastian worthy of at least a fraction of his attention, his eyes sliding over and eyebrow arching upward. He says not a word at first, simply eyeing him up and down. He recognizes him from his research of the network, though they've never met in person. Finally, he offers blandly- ]

If you begin with saying you "fell down the stairs," I might recommend you seek out a good counselor instead of digging about the medical bay for bandages and pills.

[ Though he can't say he can think of a good treatment for wounded pride. Not getting one's self beat to a pulp is a proper start. ]

[ Head reeling from the third strike to the face of the day, Sebastian all but stumbles through the doors of the medbay. Grace isn't something he's aiming for. A remaining scrap of dignity, maybe, but certainly not grace.

He nearly doesn't notice the man at the microscope. His face hurts, his head is pounding, and he's too angry to slip into the sharp, hunter role right now. Then Sherlock speaks, and Moran is incredibly confused for a moment because there is no way Sherlock Holmes could have gottne here before--oh. There are two of them again, aren't there? Well, isn't this his lucky day?

No, it isn't. His voice comes out in a snarl when he responds. ]

Allow me to cut your comments short, sir. I did not fall down the stairs, I did not run into a door, and no, I did not trip. If you work here, please direct me to someone else.

[ Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, eyes darting briefly to either side of him. Oh. Did John leave? He hadn't noticed. His eyes finally fall back to Moran in the brief silence that hangs between them. ]

Hm.

[ He can already tell from here: one of those is his. Not his, of course, not from the hand currently shutting down his microscope, but certainly a hand of identical bone structure and genetic composition. The other two will require a closer look and probably a bit of poking around. Oh yes, without the sort of supervision that normally tells him Sherlock, digging about in other people's wounds just for shits and giggles is a bit not good he is free to play doctor to his heart's content. Besides, he just has to slap some antibacterial and a couple of butterfly bandages on when he's finished, right? No no problem at all. ]

...Well. Let's have a look at that facial trauma, shall we?

[ Yeah, his best doctor smile is a bit more shark-like than it should be. ]

We shan't.

[ Moran is already beyond irritated and struggling to keep his self control in check. This Sherlock hasn't done anything, but just his face and his ridiculous cheekbones and listening to him yammer on in that voice of his makes Moran's temper rise again. It takes everything not to deck him in the face right here and now. ]

There are hundreds of people on his ship. I know you're not the only one who works here. For all I know, you don't work here at all and you're just some bastard who weaseled his way in to look at toenail clippings under a microscope for a good laugh. Direct me to someone else.

[ Oh, that look is just precious, isn't it? Sherlock watches every tick, every tightened muscle pulling beneath grizzled skin as the man's irritation becomes palpable. Sebastian Moran; he remembers seeing him on the network when he was doing a bit of reading up. Mid-forties, ex-military like John but without the honorable discharge. Game hunter. Different time period, long before his -- Victorian, if Sherlock's reading the complexion and teeth correctly accompanied by those God-awful muttonchops. Once a proud officer and now? Now, just a thug.

How entertaining.

Rising from his seat, Sherlock offers a particularly dramatic look round - Hmm, over there? Or perhaps in that corner? No? - before directing his gaze back to the only other occupant with both eyebrows raised up towards his hairline. ]

And who exactly would you have me direct you to? There is no one else here and as the equipment here is more than a bit delicate as well as far out of your era of expertise I can't very well let you go rifling about on your own looking for bandages. So either I treat you, or you bleed your way down the corridor back to your quarters and attempt to lick your wounds all on your lonesome.

[ He gestures absently to a chair nearby. ]

Now then. Let's see what we can do about that swelling.

Like the fella once said, ain't that a kick in the head?

Jim Moriarty, assbutt extraordinaire

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ONE OF THE SHORTEST TAGS OF MY LIFE

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Brendan Frye

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Sherlock Holmes (AU)

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Medbay (John Watson, Sherlock Holmes)

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