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CHARACTERS: EVERYONE
LOCATION: MED BAY
WARNINGS: ... Partial nudity? It should be pretty tame, but let me know if I need to add anything.
SUMMARY: Side-effects of a jump may include disorientation and temporary memory loss. Fortunately, there are a handful of others who have been through this before.
NOTES: Yes, it's a rehashing of the game premise. Don't worry, you can personalize your own (re-)introduction!

You wake up, alone in the dark.

There's a breathing tube jammed down your trachea, and you're suspended in a tube of clear blue fluid. Upon registering your level of consciousness, the gravity couch drains the fluid surrounding you and retracts the breathing apparatus; the doors in front of you open, and you're deposited on the floor of a stark, sterile medical bay.

Don't worry, you are not alone. There are others who have come before you, others who are awakening beside you. Some may be familiar to you, perhaps even friends. They will help you through your disorientation, even though they might suffer from it too.

After you catch your breath and your vision returns, you notice a number on the inside of your forearm. Maybe it's a familiar number. Maybe it means something. Maybe it's just a number. But the number—completely unique to you—is a tattoo, and it does not come off.

If you enter the room adjacent to the medbay, you will find a small locker with your number on it, surrounded by rows upon rows of identical lockers. Inside, you will find a few of your personal items, a communications device, and a ship's uniform in your exact size. The comms device is fully powered and connects directly to the ship's network; it's your only means of communication beyond physical conversation. Upon turning the device on, a neutral, automated voice will say, "Please take the blue lift to the passenger quarters." Any other attempts at communicating with the rest of the network are met only with static.

This is your welcome party.

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He's quite observant. Reminds Chase of the Puzzle Club, actually. Taking in little facts, things she didn't notice.

That's refreshing.

That's very, very refreshing--because this Sherlock Holmes isn't treating her like a child. Maybe he doesn't know how. Maybe Sherlock is acting like Sherlock--

Wait.

"Sherlock. Sherlock...."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Sherlock Holmes. Genius. Madman. Friends with John Watson. But that's--not...right.."

How could there be two?

She's not answering his question. He somehow doesn't seem to care.

It's probably to do with her bounding off into whatever direction this is. The persistence petered off when that look of recognition started to enter her eyes, but how? She'd heard of them, surely. The newspapers. Hence the recognition by name rather than by face.

Holmes' hands lace together, thumbs twiddling contemplatively. "Elaborate."

Even the way his hands lace together.

Chase sits. Right then and there, she crosses her legs and forgets the notebook almost entirely, because this? This is interesting. She'd catalog later; she had the majority of numbers anyway.

"Arrived a month ago, Mr. Holmes, sir. Likes to text. Assuming you're talking about your doppelganger. Anyway--only seems to listen to Mr. Watson. Well, sort of. We play card games. Solve riddles. Try to ignore Wheatley. Try to pass the time without our brains going flat." A small, small quirk of the lips. An almost smile.

"He's younger than you, though. You're older. I'd say maybe you're the same person from a different timeline, as it's possible--or a genetically engineered clone, because that's certainly possible--but you look nothing alike. No shared DNA. Logistically, that concludes that you're possibly from another universe, however closely related. A pocket dimension, or perhaps an alternate one. It's too much of a coincidence, as Sherlock and Holmes are odd names in any part of any world I've heard about."

What on Earth did that mean, 'likes to text'? A clever new way of referring to a career in writing?

If that's the least of his worries, though, he's doing well for today. As it is, his mind is reeling, in large and dizzying circles at first, but then into webs and tangles and, oh, the sitting was a good idea, though his is likely for another reason, and he slides slowly down the grav bed and then onto the floor. His legs cross, his expression darkens, and he carefully rests his forearms onto his knees, his thumb and forefinger into a thoughtful 'o'. Meditation, almost. It would be, if he could clear any of his mind.

There's a pocket of it, terrible and dark and churning that he can't quite seem to shake just yet, one that thinks of surgical twins and copied personalities, and though he shakes it almost immediately (different statures, on account of John Watson, and different heights; improbable), there's this absolutely psychotic part of him that clings to it like a death wish.

Listens to a certain Dr -- Mr? -- Watson. Riddles. My mind rebels. His nose wrinkles. "I refuse it," he says after a long pause, though it's not the craziest thing he's heard today, but merely the thought of there being two of him is something just utterly and absolutely beyond his realm of recognition. "You're an attentive girl; approximate height and weight, please. Of the alleged 'twin'."

"You can refuse it all you like, sir, but it doesn't mean it's not impossible. You're on a ship in space with a bunch of other people from different worlds. It's not a shot in the dark that there could be parallel universes. All relative, of course. That's simple physical cosmology. Quantum mechanics. The Uncertainty Principal."

She shrugs her tiny shoulders, returning to the pad. Drawing. "But he's much skinnier than you and much taller. He's very good at riddles."

"Well, it's clearly possible if it's happening," Holmes replies a bit snappily, cross if just because what he recognizes as actuality and science fiction is being very suddenly and rudely rewritten, before he adds a bit loudly and just as irritated, "I'm on a damned SPACEship!!"

Holmes huffs then, wiping hair from his face. This whole situation was just silly.

Skinnier. Much taller. Of course he was good at riddles, he was Sherlock Holmes. "A piece of living evidence for a theory revolving alternative universes." Oh. Oh, he needed a moment. He raises his hand and presses his palm firmly into his temple. His fingers are shaking in the slightest. Okay. So even Sherlock Holmes can get culture shock.

...Oh.

He's quite distressed.

Chase can't really handle things like this--she doesn't know how, for one--and she's been living on a space ship herself all her life--but this kindly gentlemen (even if he was a bit short) was clearly unaccustomed.

She bites her lip, worry showing on her face before she sets the clipboard aside carefully and walks up to the poor man, awkwardly reaching tiny hands upwards. She gets as far as the other's bare shoulder and proceeds to awkwardly pat him twice in a vague attempt to be comforting.

"Would a puzzle help?"

Was that a -- hand, she was patting his shoulder. Rather than the comforting effect it's probably meant to have, Holmes goes all puzzled and stiff, head slowly craning to peer skeptically at the girl. What- was- she doing- ?

At least it's distracting from the whole matter of alternate universes and copies and space and all that.

He huffs noisily and unnecessarily, edging away from her hand in the slightest - really, that was odd, he wasn't quite used to strangers patting him, but then he could count on one hand the people who he was familiar enough with to do so - and narrowing his eyes in a quizzical manner. "What sort of puzzle?"

Well, fine. Judging from all of that huffing, Chase had clearly upset him. That's what she got for trying to comfort him. Feeling a little annoyed, she settled for crossing her arms and watching the other carefully.

This Sherlock, she decided, was weird.

Then again, so was the other one.

"A puzzle. Mathematics, riddles, problem solving. Something to jog your mind. Place you in a familiar mindset. I should think it's fairly obvious."

..Okay, maybe she was a little chuffed at the way he reacted to her awkward pat. But in all honesty, it's the first time she'd tried something like that.

"You- I know what a puzzle is," Holmes haughtily answers after a short and disbelieving pause that she is deigning herself to actually explain to him the different sorts of puzzles, or why he would be needing a puzzle at all right now. He realizes what she's attempting. If she's familiar with his methods in any sense, she'll know his thirst for mental exaltation.

To be fair, at least the patting thing wasn't her fault. He didn't seem concerned that it would have appeared that way to anyone else.

"I meant," he begins to clarify, and then pauses, nose wrinkled, his words escaping him for a moment as he raises a hand and waves it, vaguely, in her direction as though to drum up the right phrasing. "Just- Yes, the puzzle! Steady as she goes!"

He scoffs again, a breathless thing as he folds his hands on top of his knees.

Chase clears her throat--she loves these kinds of things and sure, he's a naked 40 year old learning against the tub dizzy, and sure she should usher him to a doctor, but she clears her throat and begins.

"I am the beginning of the end, and the end of time and space. I am essential to creation, and I surround every place. What am I?"

Ugh. Doctoring. One would think that, after more then a dozen years in John Watson's company, Holmes would have become more attuned to it. He hasn't.

Chase can hardly get out the end of her statement before Holmes is instantly shooting back her answer, "The culprit is, of course, letter 'E'." There's a moment's pause, before he gasps loudly and zealously. "Oh, that was quite nice, actually. Yes, I think I should have another."

Chase can't help the giggle, clapping her hands excitedly. "Good! Maybe you aren't bad at riddles. I thought for a moment the other Sherlock was smarter than you. Though I suppose that depends on how good your math is."

Yes, that was a bit of a jab. Still, it she clears her throat and takes another go:

"I run over fields and woods all day. Under the bed at night I sit not alone. My tongue hangs out, up and to the rear, awaiting to be filled in the morning. What am I?"

- Smarter than him? Was that a bait? Holmes does focus on her at that, eyes unsettled and narrowed clinically at the girl. He's clearly and immediately offended by the assessment, though he's not so childish as the other Sherlock to immediately jump at the dig.

"A shoe," he says quickly, adamantly, a hand waving passively waving off the riddle. "How do you mean smarter?"

Okay, maybe a little childish enough.

A shoe. Bingo! Chase is trying to fight the urge to clap politely--she's not sure he'd like that.

"Not smarter," except yes, maybe a little bit--Chase has never come from a world where space travel doesn't exist, after all. Hyper genius or not it's hard for her brain to wrap around certain concepts.

"I just play games with him a lot. Spock, Sherlock, Clive and I. Wheatley likes to watch, but..." It kind of creeps her out. Trying not to focus on that, she flicks her attention to the older man.

"But maybe you should put some clothes on and get yourself checked up, hnn?"

Games? He's met a Wheatley, though he wouldn't take him to be the lecherous type upon immediate characterization, but. Well. "Yes, smarter, you said 'smarter' because you meant 'smarter'," he corrects her, as if reading her mind, and his voice is a little haughty still. "But you'd be hard-pressed."

Sherlock Holmes has been called many things. 'Proud' and 'arrogant' are so regularly included among those, for proper reasons.

He hasn't forgotten his shoulder, of course - it's hard to, when the thing is throbbing profusely in wake of everything, even with how focused his mind is on what was previously referred to as the impossible. He feels like he's reinventing his entire vocabulary and all he's known, and it's not a fantastic feeling. He feels ill, on top of the pain in his shoulder. Still, he doesn't stand, stubbornly. "When I feel like it. They're not immediately necessary."

"They're immediately necessary," Chase ignores everything else Sherlock has been saying because she doesn't know how to really answer it. He saw right through the unintentional meaning behind her words, and in a way, that's slightly terrifying. She settles for throwing Sherlock a look and putting her hands on her hips.

"Especially if you're unused to space. "

And now dropping the issue entirely, ooh, she was in for it. Holmes huffs once, and brushes a thumb across his shoulder. It does come away with blood, but it's the thick substance of a deeper, slightly older wound, rather than something more new and superficial.

"Not," he argues in return, and looks back up at Chase. "Though it's interesting that so many are fully willing to use my own discomfort - the cold - as a motivator for putting on a paltry, thin jumpsuit. Why, how much heat could that generate, really? Were the cold really a problem, one would apologize, suggest a jacket or some thicker form of clothing to wear, as the jumpsuit will not make much difference. In knowing this, it's revealed that their true motivations lie within their own comfort zones: That's to say the social norm of being clothed while meeting strange, new people, or people in general with whom one may not be intimately familiar."

Oh, you've got him going now. He's almost in a trance, carrying on very quickly and very clinically, as though he's reciting rather than creating the analysis on the spot. "Were the nakedness a problem, you wouldn't have taken the time to leave the room and return of your own volition, where you know people are going to be in various states of undress, but that's not your business nor your concern - perhaps because of learning experiences, perhaps it's just merely not a factor in your culture, though the former is more likely considering your own clothing being a priority upon waking up here. Mine, however, were not until it was a convenience, and thus the conclusion is that your attempts are to change the subject, now tell me why he's smarter!"

And finally, he breathes.

Edited 2012-01-19 21:03 (UTC)

Chase takes a few steps backwards, and it isn't hard to see the surprise on her face. She's hyper intelligent, yes, a genius, yes, but she's also four years old and right now Sherlock had just proved he was...well. Sherlock.

She blinks for a few moments, nodding ever-so-slightly, and opens her mouth to speak before closing it.

"Or maybe I just noticed the fact that you were bleeding and probably needed to go see a doctor which would mean getting dressed." Which was half-true, yes, but it's also merely a line to buy Chase time to collect herself.

She does, and smooths out her hair, picking up the clipboard and pen and making a point to tap the pen against the board.

"Sherlock with blue eyes I've known longer. And solved quite a number of riddles with him. It's familiarity."

Sherlock Holmes has never pretended to know well the motives of children, how they function, how to act around the things. He's not about to begin now of all times, and so he should probably feel more guilt for how he's reacted, but he doesn't. How she speaks is probably a large contributing factor.

"Well, then, in future, you should specify, 'he's more familiar'," Holmes answers, a bit of an irritated edge to his voice, "rather than the alternative, less accurate, and mildly offensive, 'he's smarter'." He eyes the clipboard, the pen, then the girl, and he finally stands.

"The shoulder can wait. It merely needs fresh stitches, and nothing more." Never mind how much blood he lost from the wound originally, or how much he may even again now if he strains it.

"What happened to it?" Chase is ignoring the preamble--but she's certainly suspicious of this holmes.

"I work in communications, I'm not part of the medical staff, but John Watson should be able to help." She pauses, raising an eyebrow. "Assuming you're not going to be rude to him. Which is a fairly broad assumption based on your current behaviour."

He's in a mood. She might have gotten the real response, rife with too many emotions and a nostalgic touch to the shoulder or two, but all she gets is a scoff. "A fisherman caught a trout. What luck that the trout should have wriggled itself free!"

Tch, that name again. John Watson, a name that caused a familiar warmth in such a cold place and yet simultaneously a sick dread that coiled in his throat. "I never hired him," he replies in turn, but he's not going to take anything out against this John Watson. Yet.

Chase sighs.

It's a weary, tired sigh that a little girl shouldn't have, but her shoulders drop and she closes her eyes and thinks of when things were far more simple, when all she was doing was studying the Scripture in her room.

"Mr. Holmes, sir. Stubborn or not, you're going to have to go to the doctor eventually."

His life was never simple, but only because he would never allow it to be. He would have rotted long before it reached that point of stagnation.

Though his dread in regards to seeing Doctor Watson are beyond a childish man who's staving off the inevitable pain of an appointment with a physician, the treatment of his injury. There's something darker in his expression, but he doesn't let her on as to what.

"You know, it would hardly be the first time I've tended to my own wounds."

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