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

[tigers]

CHARACTERS: Sebastian Moran, Jim Moriarty, Brendan Frye, Sherlock Holmes (AU), John Watson, the other Sherlock Holmes
LOCATION: Various parts of the ship, then to the medbay.
WARNINGS: Violence
SUMMARY: Moran is out of the brig and ERRYONE WANTS TO PUNCH HIM, followed immediately by a trip to the medbay.
NOTES: Running the gauntlet of punches here. He does deserve it.

This is a catch-all log post for several things, and given that this is catch-all log, you'll have to find your place in the sun in the comments.

Comments

[abductivereasoning]

[ 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. ]

[tigers]

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.

[abductivereasoning]

[ 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.