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ataraxionlogs2012-05-05 11:17 am
consulting) wrote in ataraxionlogs2012-05-05 11:17 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
CHARACTERS: Jim Moriarty (a_spider) and Sherlock Holmes (consulting). Open to John Watson
LOCATION: An empty pool in one of the Holodecks.
WARNINGS: Spoilers for Sherlock Seasons 1 and 2.
SUMMARY: (´･ω･`) Sherlock and Jim play a game. Two people long lost - reunite!
NOTES: ♥ ♥ ♥
[ TAKES PLACE AFTER THIS TRAINWRECK OF GOOD DECISIONS. ]
[ He's informed John that he's going to the pool via a post it note stuck on top of the skull. 'Moriarty. Pool. Dangerous. Come. SH'. It's tart but it's all he can manage without having to actually come and talk to John in the medbay. He can't get talked out of this. This was something, or someone he needed to confront.
Sherlock is in the pool area. He's bothered to dress up. Purple shirt, slacks, proper shoes and the coat. Hands tucked in, one of them gripping a small white USB containing the Bruce Partington Plans like a safety blanket. It's for nostalgia's sake, a little: 'Don't fuck this up, Sherlock.'.
He's stolen John's gun as well. It's tucked within the coat, concealed for the most part. A just in case he hopes he doesn't have to take. He needs to know what Jim's been scheming. What he's managed in three weeks.
He makes a list of information established.
He needs this to be clever. It's been way too long without the edge, the stimulation.
And there is a darker part of him that wants Jim not to disappoint. Until then, he'll wait. ]
a_spider) and Sherlock Holmes (consulting). Open to John Watson LOCATION: An empty pool in one of the Holodecks.
WARNINGS: Spoilers for Sherlock Seasons 1 and 2.
SUMMARY: (´･ω･`) Sherlock and Jim play a game. Two people long lost - reunite!
NOTES: ♥ ♥ ♥
[ TAKES PLACE AFTER THIS TRAINWRECK OF GOOD DECISIONS. ]
[ He's informed John that he's going to the pool via a post it note stuck on top of the skull. 'Moriarty. Pool. Dangerous. Come. SH'. It's tart but it's all he can manage without having to actually come and talk to John in the medbay. He can't get talked out of this. This was something, or someone he needed to confront.
Sherlock is in the pool area. He's bothered to dress up. Purple shirt, slacks, proper shoes and the coat. Hands tucked in, one of them gripping a small white USB containing the Bruce Partington Plans like a safety blanket. It's for nostalgia's sake, a little: 'Don't fuck this up, Sherlock.'.
He's stolen John's gun as well. It's tucked within the coat, concealed for the most part. A just in case he hopes he doesn't have to take. He needs to know what Jim's been scheming. What he's managed in three weeks.
He makes a list of information established.
→ Jim Moriarty arrived on the tranquility as per usual method.
→ Three weeks. Establishment of 'friends' ( seek like minded individuals : intrigue by baconian cypher. ). Do thorough psychological profile.
→ 'Round Three' - ergo. Later time. ( .5 - why was it unfinished? ) 3? Chase Kilagannon stated. IOU - three letters. Three rounds. Three. Phrase: Third times the charm. Think. Significance.
→ Consider your (fake) death a possibility. See if course of action played the same as Holmes.
He needs this to be clever. It's been way too long without the edge, the stimulation.
And there is a darker part of him that wants Jim not to disappoint. Until then, he'll wait. ]
no subject
The chirp from one fluttering bird to another, approaching with steps so light he might as well dance on air. One hand tucked away, another behind his back. His own form is tucked in a calming hue that announced "Vivienne Westwood, ladies and gentlemen." Of course, it wouldn't be complete without his personal touch, a particular tie he fancied decorated in skulls; the stars in his looming form. And now, with the series of insignificant noises as he enters, it's time. The curtains are being pulled and the show will begin: Jim Moriarty joins his dear friend Sherlock Holmes for a meeting.
His whistle pierces and fills the silence. It's a familiar piece, Toccata & Fugue in D minor—and a small giggle escapes, immediately reaching to calm the ticklish grin with a free hand. Just the start of their reunion and he's already squirming with feeling, heaving a sigh layered in nostalgic humor. Sweet, sweet humor.
Steady, mirroring the same confidence from days where the Consulting Criminal revealed an identity. Behind the fleeting impression of Jim from IT, now Richard Brook, he suddenly draws his arm from behind. He's now a magician presenting a trick into the room, the beauty of a single anemone flower.]
Sorry I'm late, sweetie. I brought you some flowers—
[An indifferent shrug as he directs observant eyes at the bloom of color in hand, a brilliant shade that stirred in blue and red. It's petals are closing.]
Welllll, a flower. You only need one, really.
/this is so late and tldr. ILYFACE
The flower is naturally, deduced. To Sherlock Holmes there is no such thing as magic only smoke and mirrors and what the less intelligent consider tricks. It is artless as equally as it is tasteless. The flower is then analyzed. Anemone. Poisonous containing high degrees of protanemonin ( C5H4O2 ). Translating to: anticipation and expectation and furthering that: withered hopes, illness and sickness. He's deleted any practical biology in favor of ones that conduce poison. In exchange for the flower, Sherlock offers a smile.
He feels suddenly in tune and in focus and it feels wonderful. There is something in his mind that has been slowed - that has stagnated and suddenly it is racing and pumping. He clenches his fist ever so slightly against the white USB drive. ]
Oh. How kind.
[ the tone is dry with hints of seething. ]
Jim. Or what name have you been going under now?
｡◕‿◕｡ o-oh...
Honestly, he's not going to change. Once pressed in (... what could we say?) sensitivity, pressed because of unfinished matters and unsung answers, but now smoothing out the wrinkles and putting on a happy face. There's something between the two that doesn't quite click, that much he can properly deduce on his own. The pool where little Carl died, an incredibly fake reflection idling in the man's memory. He sees the start, Jim sees the ending. Two times that won't willingly frolic together. So, what should he call this, a filler?
No, this is truly stimulating. Extravagant. They're beyond the obstructions, offered a world of endless thrills and games for children to play. He doesn't plan to let that go, not now, not for a long, long time.]
Oh! Oh! [Rubbing his hands excitedly together, he readies himself for the punchline. He does appreciate a good joke, but Sherlock is the whale of a bonus. The mind that wills for exercise, needlessly absorbent to the point he can perfectly time each moment his chest heaves for breath, perhaps.] Richard Brook.
Cute, isn't it? I made a fair set of likeable friends with it.
no subject
Sherlock's mind is racing and everything is pick apart and analyzed. Richard Brook? it should have been familiar. Is this something he should know? Clearly by the pace of Jim's excitement it was but his mind is giving inconclusive results. He takes apart the two names and studies them individually but realizes soon he needs the data. He needs to act quick. The response is a generic one, because Sherlock is playing it safe. A look of absolute distaste. He'll focus on the other matter because that's what he believes he can handle. ]
You're capable of making friends?
no subject
Do you remember when we last spoke? I wanted to end the world, but I settled for ending yours.
[The word sounded so hollow—'yours.' Hollowness in intention, yet detected something that bites on a rawness of feeling. 'I owe you a fall', the promise echoes as he turns by the heels. He's on edge, as they were quite literally. He may see a place where two young men flirted and played the semtex game, but he sees his own battlefield. Unmatched business that irritates every bone and nerve in his damned body.]
Friend is an easy word to toss around here, you should know.
no subject
[ Sherlock feels like he's caught in between the thin line of life and death and Jim is a vulture. He hates this. Not knowing. Not being even remotely aware of the conversation in reference or the way and not being able to deduce how it played out. This is the cabbie all over again, Sherlock thinks. He could have not egged this on but he did. He's cursed with an insatiable curiosity and he had to know what Jim was up too, what Jim meant. The significance of three. He could walk away right now but he stays. ]
[ Every detail. Every thread in Jim's suit, every duration of breath and space between steps is carefully measured. He can feel the knots forming in shoulders. The small needs for movement. Logic, perhaps in relation to emotion, dictate he ought to be scared. But his hands are calm. ]
[ He barks a laugh, it is dry and cynical ]
I. O. U - was it?
[ He hopes Chase is right. He may not have believed in god - but she did and he needed her to be right on this account. He is shooting in the dark. Going blind until he manages to draw up something, enough to deduce what happened. He needed data. Everything was insufficient and he wasn't going to let Jim dictate what happened. ]
[ Then, Jim brings up friends and Sherlock knows he's been vulnerable. He's always considered people dull but at the concept of Space, that changes everything. The diversity in histories was enough to keep Sherlock interested. There was also John. He had known the man, from what Sherlock understands as a time nearing two years and though that friendship has settled into a pattern that Sherlock isn't too keen on - it didn't remove the fact they were friends. Space did strengthen that to some degree. There are a few names Sherlock knows he could be associated with on the level of 'friendship'. Five months in, knowing people is an inevitability. He weighs on exactly how much of that is Jim getting involved? He clenches his fist before it shakes. ]
[ redirect. ]
Should I? You've described them as likable. What makes them interesting enough for the company of Jim Moriarty?
[ Word play. How many people knew about Jim versus Richard. ]
no subject
[An answer easily voiced as easily prepared. Without hesitation, a miss in his step, or the need to uselessly twirl his finger in the air, in search for the word among others. It's always there: Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Like a silly childhood crush, written in diaries and decorated in broken cursive. He carved his name into walls, framed it in places for the world to see, and whispered it into the darkest of alleyways. The man who stole his attention and bloomed the relationship between dreamer and nightmare. There is unholy glee in his eyes, stilled as dark eyelashes still against his own skin. He's reaching the edge, vulnerable form against the deep blue.
—And he remembers that laugh.]
"I will burn the heart out of you."
[Not a snarl, more of a quotation blanketed in fondness. The spider seduced from his web, welcomed to the lovely little flowers of his world. A world that is clever, unordinary, but absolutely ordinary. A world where man boasts with his mind and Jim is given permission pinch out every bit. Mistakes. Flaws. Sentiment. A match met and meant to end with their glorious rendezvous.
Two moments are merging, with a sharp turn and steps that aim for the other man. Beyond personal barriers, an affront from power to power, player to player. He holds his promises, either way, either form. He promised Sherlock he would burn, but there is something else. Now tenseness blossoms at the back of his head and claws into every last bit of patience until its hardly considered apprehensible. Patience? What is that? What sort of loo-ny made up such rubbish? He will have their wrists snapped and ankles dangling.]
I.
[Trilled high notes suddenly dip low.]
O.
[Demanding.]
U.
[Cold and calculating.]
A.
[Eyes narrowing.]
Fall.
no subject
[ Yet nothing is on fire. He wants to egg it on. Moriarty is like an ocean and Sherlock always needs to test how far he can swim before he drowns. He's heard the statement before, burning the heart of you. It's what his mind goes too when he's idle. The red dot at the center of a blank sheet of paper screaming focus, focus, focus. He's studied those words. Placed it in every context. The IOU's are just a new variable. ]
[ He's relying on second hand knowledge even if the reputable source is himself. ]
[ Holmes' accounts were interesting and god knows Sherlock's tried to place it in a modern context. He knows there is a fall, down a cliff in Switzerland and how he survives. He knows about the revolutionists, Moran and Rene. He's waiting on memories to form. To piece together. There's a part of him that knows he's going to pretend to be dead, that he's going to leave John and he's been mentally trying to put up walls. Make small defenses for it - even when he knows that's an inevitable world of hurt that Jim's going to manage to create. He adapts the story differently in his mind. He thinks the revolutionists meet in chat rooms and he imagines that Moran (however he looks like) uses a proper sniping scope. It's shots in the dark, theories without facts to support it. He's going blind and not knowing makes it terrifying. The inevitable is that he's wrong. He's working on nothing but a series of impossibilities and he can't eliminate. ]
[ Not knowing is making him feel like falling. 35.30394 kilometers for every second he doesn't know. ]
[ Regret. He should have met with Irene first to get facts straight. Not that she could be trusted anymore then Jim, but a life for a life and it's not within Irene's psyche to owe. ]
[ He can't ask. He doesn't want Jim to tell this story. ]
[ He's daring, because he needs to find out what happens. He's a kid who's skipped to the end but needs to work out the middle. It happened to Holmes, perhaps it happened to him as well. ]
And I fell. But as far as I'm aware, you fell with me. I should count that as a draw in our little game, but a win for everyone watching.
no subject
A b e a t.
Then...
Then.]
No, no, no, no, NO, NO, n— [Muffled into hands, pressing away obscenities into his throat. Swallowing them. Forcing them away. Nerves are bursting. Breaking. Cracking. Buried somewhere. He's squirming with it, a dramatic turn and wave of his arms. Here it is again, right before him, that disappointment. That dread. It's here again. Again. Repeat. Deja vu. Echo. Replay. Rerun. Reshowing. Again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again.]
You were doing so well. So, so, well. Little, tee-ny Sherlock. [He reaches to give the man a concerning pat, intended to straighten and tidy, but met with trembling fingers. He aims to smooth out wrinkles, but in turn creates more. Now he's smiling a bit, forcing it in place and giving little else away in his expression. Jim Moriarty is smiling, but full of absolute dread.
His little gem loses its sparkle.]
no subject
[ No. Did Jim win? ]
[ There is genuine fear struck through his heart. ( fear. fire. maybe. ) - but it's enough to make him grow paler, to let his blood flush cold and feel a sudden drop in his stomach. He's been shifting between thoughts. Between loose patterns of ideas. Trying to make do with anything he can get his hands on. Holmes was a source of ideas but having Holmes here was a cause for a lot self-examination. Sherlock Holmes is a man who by conventional definition - the one that people had recognized - was a character painted in a Victorian light. Spock has told him about the books. He's heard snippets of it from other passengers. Holmes was sharper, more experienced and that weighed on him. It was never virtuous to compete with yourself and Sherlock did it quite literally. Without casework, without methods of release - Sherlock couldn't attest to anything. The idea that Holmes triumphed his Moriarty and that Sherlock couldn't manage Jim took him down more than a few notches. ]
[ If Jim had won - what happened to John? ]
Dictate then the manner of our score, in your opinion.
[ Words are dry, monotonous and clipped. ]
no subject
[A hand to his so-called heart, following in the exaggeration of a grimace. Barely a full 1000 milliseconds before glassy orbs roll towards nowhere in particular. Blunt viciousness he has compressed and gritted tightly. But he's drawn back, encouragingly facing that comment with the angled shrug of his shoulders. The look you give a dim child, as if "Christ, you don't already know that? Haven't you been paying attention in class? These aren't notes, they are goddamn scribbles."
Lecture upon lecture, Jim is willing to offer a helping a hand to his student.]
Undetermined.
[Lips abruptly twinge, animalistic bite of dander. He's suddenly uncertain what to do with his hands, tapping one finger to another like a cartoonish villain. Hands retreat into his pockets and there's a faint pop. Gum.]
They met somewhere high~ Got him running in his gutties and the Spider watched them, reckless and foolish toddler, step to the edge. Arachnids are tricky bastards.
[Sleazy eyes blinking up at him that demand attention. He wants to push, push, and push until he tips over. Until there's a noticeable crack in the Consulting Criminal's surface. Sympathy is not known in his vocabulary, but pleasure, only a tad. He despises it, loves it. Wants to frame that look on his wall, much like his skull.
Fingers curl into the shape of a gun and the barrel presses against his chest. Where X marks the spot, the heart. The mark is bleeding, vulnerable and scarred with many names. He could literally tear inside and grasp it, all for him. Property of Jim Moriarty. The Prison, the Bank, and the Tower, owned, taken, and a crown worn. But did he want this? Flawed, beating flesh.
The real question: Could he end this?]
And said he, "I will burn the heart of you." All of your friends in the world. Three bullets, three gunmen—
[He bends his thumb, following in a click for the sake of presentation.]
—Three victims. Guess what he did?
I should just change his name to Sherlock 'Full of Bullshit' Holmes
[ That is it's significance. Three gunmen. Three bullets. Three letters. Three rounds. Moriarty's words slot in easily. It's put into perspective with the way he's describing it. Tell the story JIm. He knows the signs of a lie. The twitch of the lip - the subtle movements of micro-expressions in the face, the tell tale signs of feet pointing towards each other and the way one covers their mouths ever so briefly. Moriarty is either a better liar than Sherlock realises or he's telling the truth. Either way - either fact, result to tension knotting in his shoulders. ]
[ He's never felt more out of his element then this conversation. ]
[ Who could be significant enough to warrant three bullets? He wonders about sentiment. John gets one bullet. Obvious. Mycroft? No. Irene? Possibly. Would he have dared harmed Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade was another 'possibly'. ]
[ Between the reluctance there is fear. ]
[ Did you watch me burn, Jim? ]
[ He needs to redirect away from actually answering. Pretend like he knows, steer the conversation away with cockiness until he pieces this together. He needs to know how Moriarty gained access to these people. He needs to know what Jim did to make him dance. ]
I never guess. You know my methods. We both know what I did -
[ Shot in the dark. Holmes for the love of god, be right . ]
Fell.
[ Did I take you with me? Did you watch the world burn? ]
A considerable amount of triumph that a spider managed to get me there with him. On the edge.
But we know at the end of this little tale only one of us survives.
SO MUCH BULLSHIT EVERYWHERE, SOMEONE BRING ME MY BOOTS.
The decision making is in full swing. Stumble right into his arms, he wants to believe there's more.]
You always guess. You.
[—Laughed. It couldn't have been easy.]
I don't know. [S H R U G. You were pathetic. Ant and boot.] Truthfully. You asked for privacy, so that's what you got. Generosity gave our story a little twist—this. Me. Here. You. Me. Tranquility and Company! Our cliffhanger, woeful souls, you and I. My men needed to see a fall to be fair, but that's something I can't guarantee.
Those three precious heads, I definitely can't guarantee whether they sat or rolled~ My most sincere condolences to you.
[Vomiting the disgusting truth takes a lot out of a man. He lifts his hand, fingers curling, index and middle readied against the thumb in the air. Prepared to snap. What does that imply? Well, he has been prepared from the moment they stepped into the room. Suddenly the decision making becomes a choice, choice made for two, whether this ends in a tragedy and curtains redrawn.
He really likes you, Sherlock.
Really.]
Shall we finish this up?
no subject
[ It's the not knowing that kills every ounce of him. He feels unmatched and raw. Normally the competition is fair even when James Moriarty is playing the game in shadows. This is too much of a gap. Every second, every gap is crucial. Why had the men needed him dead? If I were a hitman working under James Moriarty - why would I need to see Sherlock take the fall? If it were something tangible, Sherlock would have parted with it. What holds value but can be exclusive? Knowledge. What did he know to warrant this? ]
[ What happened to the three bullets? He cares. He does care but at the core of it he can't dwell. These are events that are about to happen and he tries as hard as he can to feign nonchalance. To look bored and unimpressed. ]
Another round then? To settle the score?
SPOILER: THERE AREN'T SNIPERS bullshit back at you bb. l-lol let me know if this isn't okay.
[Such a sickening pitch. And he snaps. Then lights. Little
l b i e g a h m t i n s g down to one man.Red dots. Two. Duel wielded attention on the target. He chuckles, satisfaction filling the air. Someone's been busy for this little date, stuffing his hands into his pockets and swaying with giddiness. Childish motion that squirms with his obvious little secret, that Jimmy has been more prepared than flowers. Stage lights on Sherlock Holmes, time for his grand solo.]
Answer a question and we will see where this goes.
this took so long, because the BBC moved our schedule a year back.
With Jim, he's starting to feel out of depth and lost. Sherlock knows for people like him and Jim, three weeks is a lot of time. The possibility of engaging people to help with this, help be a threat to him isn't improbable. He knows he's not entirely well liked. It doesn't make him feel as helpless as the first time, Perhaps it's because John isn't involved and that accounts for something. If John were here, his blood would have ran cold but it's traded in for something that sparks in his gut. Something that feels like stimulation because this excites him. It's been too long since he's gone without a challenge, without a case. In space they are isolated and this is a playground that is entirely their own.
This is a rush and Sherlock forgets to worry about his own life. He has a gun on his person and the temptation to draw it is high. If he does however draw it and the laser dots end up being a fake, Moriarty would be aware he's in possession of weaponry and that detaches away from a future element of surprise. He's not sure, this is guess work at it's finest. ]
[ A cocksure smirk. He isn't sure at all, but whatever the result, information will occur. ]
- Please. Ask away.
time for my SLIGHTLY NOTICEABLE HAIRSTYLE CHANGE.
But that's how he likes these, doesn't he? He aims to please his #1 (Giddy child fumbling with his emotions; like a unsettling feeling. A stupid crush.) and it's definitely working, batting his eyelashes at the false threat drawing him in. Lights that are just lights, coincidentally helping his target into the right spotlight. A dance, leading his partner to the right place and at the right moment.
Voilà!
He's not sharing the smirk, despite how Sherlock puts on his own, and it's serious. Vicious. Determined and aiming for the right beat in this silence. He glances into the pool, apparently thinking. Maybe. Wasting time? Tick, tick, time ticking away.
Deciding to turn back appears to be an after-thought, casual and slow. Hunched shoulders roll and straighten, squinting his dark eyes back and studying. Wetting his dry lips, he finally states the question:]
If I gave you a key, would you use it?
no subject
[ This is a magic trick, everything else. It's impressive but at the end of the day it's smoke and mirrors. In space, time has no concept. It is an endless blur of hours and minutes. They are isolated. This is just them. Sherlock notes every moment. He makes charts of every breath. He should have known, deduced that it was a lie instead of making a blind risk. In that he got away lucky. It's lucky he even managed to get away at all. ]
What would the key open?
[ he asks challengingly.]