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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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

'I don't have friends,' Holmes simultaneously mouths the four, little words, knowing precisely what is about to come next. The movement of his lips is nearly imperceptible, but. Well. It's what a him a good fifteen years ago might have said. It's all too familiar. In fact, there's a lot that's all too familiar about him, too much. The face, the structure, the height, the voice, no, none of them are his. Nothing is physically, other than a few choice mannerisms.

But the personality. Holmes' fingers sketch curiously over his top lip. He could ask why his getting dry is something that benefits this other man, and he could inquire as to how it is he inevitably sorts his socks or his cravats, but he just scoffs once, slipping the towel from around his shoulders. "No. Because you play with a bow. Not always but sometimes, intermittently, and it's not merely because you enjoy both - lacking in the true indents of concentration on styles. No, it's because sometimes the bow is merely too far across the room and," he laughs shortly, wiggling his own fingers knowingly, "you simply can't be bothered."

He scrubs his hands uselessly, and holds the towel out, eyebrows raised. "A man like that doesn't merely carry a towel around for others who might possibly cause him convenience. So is it three acquaintances?"

He would have protested wrong if it were anyone else. But he really hates contradicting himself. This was complicated, declaring Holmes wrong was practically declaring he was wrong.

He's been analyzing that possibility to rather existentialist degrees that perhaps he and this other Sherlock can be the same person. He's been told a few time repeatedly about a consulting detective in the Victorian era. Perhaps, this was him. They looked nothing alike physically. The way they danced each other's worlds proved a few things. Was he a remake? Was he as well liked? What if he wasn't the only adaptation?

Holmes was saying everything Sherlock would have said. But he saw the little places where they differed. Age was the first thing that set them apart. He was older, although not by much. Sherlock is however is fully aware he has the upper hand; he knows the value of the name.

"Just as you cannot be bothered to mend to your dog," he says dryly. He would have wanted a dog. Perhaps a bulldog; something that could guard and watch. He watched as the signs flashed before his eyes.
Versed in Chemistry from the callouses. Pipe smoker from the curl of the lips. Violinist from the crook in the neck. Exhausted from the state of those eyes.

"Or mend yourself, I should think I would make wounds from dangling off a meat hook my first priority. Obvious from the way the injury scissors itself through your skin, that it was a method of torture. Considerable signs of struggle, but not desperate signs. Meaning you were tortured with a goal in mind. What could possibly be gained from getting tortured, nothing but the upper hand. Curious. Wounds were attended to by a medical physcian but done without the benefit of time; substantially redone up by a man with little to no experience in the medical field; but one observant enough and in the company of a doctor far often enough to catch on how to stitch yourself together.,"

The dog? How did he know about the dog? Holmes actually allows himself a once-over, as if he's going to find hairs about after that long journey to hell and back, no, highly, highly improbable. Holmes can feel the objection on his lips, it's right there, 'Gladstone is OUR dog,' and it's so reflexive by now, but he doesn't dare answer the other man. Not when he can see his eyes flicker over, and he knows exactly just what it is he's going to touch into next.

During which he remains sufficiently calmed, despite everything. True, the wound is much worse for wear than when he started - the exit wound ragged because of the rush, of the hooked end tearing out flesh in the process. Like a trout, gutted. How very appropriate. He was spot on, of course; Watson had sewn up the wound with expert hands and the dotting of his stitches will still be apparent, and then his own, less savory, slapdash stitches over them, both inexperienced and done with a left hand rather than his favored right. It was no matter his wound was so bad as it was now, a few rivulets of coagulated blood streaking his shoulder. It was a gift at all that he hadn't caught infection.

Not for the first time, Holmes wishes for his pipe, or perhaps the towel back, if not just so he has something else to divert his attention to. He doesn't want to discuss his shoulder. He most certainly does not in the slightest want to discuss James Moriarty, or even still any doctors beginning with J and ending with Ohn Watson. But there's already a telltale way that his gaze has cast down, a wry smile pressing his lips into a tight line as he runs his thumbnail along his hairline, contemplatively.

"Perhaps a detailed story for you to hear some time," he offers after a few, long beats of silence. He glances back up to Sherlock, and for a moment his gaze sharpens as much as Sherlock's steely gaze. "It IS Sherlock Holmes. I presume." And he doesn't offer a handshake or much more in the way of a greeting; he just approaches him, more closely, standing sufficiently enough into Sherlock's personal bubble. He's painstakingly taller than him, but Holmes gets in his face enough to be unsettling anyway.

"And your nose is too pointy. Ta." With a flippant handwave, he backs off again.

Okay, so maybe a little injured about the shoulder analysis.

He sees the recognition. He knows what Holmes is referring to, he's been there. He's currently there. He would have hated to go through this without John on board. A part of him was curious about what his John was like. Watson's were fascinating creatures he wanted to devote studies too. Sherlock knows himself well enough that he's not going to get that story right away. He's going to need to be bribed and coerced into submission.

"Good, caught on. I was waiting. Glad, I don't disappoint myself," A wry smile does form at his lips at those sentiments. Good, he's caught in. He always hates introductions. He always sounds so cocksure in them. He replies to the comment of his nose with a simple wrinkle of it and the declaration of, "A razor is not a difficult tool to master,"

"We have the time," he says easily. "There is little else to do in space so don't spare me the details. I do hate it when people gloss over the interesting parts. As a peace offering and as a suggestion for you to ration our supply of tobacco, would you care for a smoke?"

"As well as yes," he pauses briefly; before his sly smile expands to a grin. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, and I'm rather attached to the name. I do hope this isn't going to be a problem, Sherlock,"

Edited 2012-01-16 18:03 (UTC)

And Holmes, in turn, sees Sherlock's own, and he has the withdraw his emotions for a moment before they're too free, even if it's merely with himself. Does he, though? Does he really know to what Holmes is referring? Moriarty, just recently emerged, just recently-- And yet when he studies this other man, he looks so young compared to himself - not just in features but the eyes, everything isn't quite so weary as Holmes feels. He wonders if Sherlock has (perhaps had) a Moriarty. He wonders what his is like.

Their thoughts are converging and reflecting each other in vastly different ways, but there is a very large and guilty part of Holmes that doesn't like to think about Watson right now, not when he remembers that man's face so clearly. And when he still hasn't told him.

"'Caught on', honestly, will I listen to myself? Lording everything over everyone, particularly me." Oh, this was going to be a fun new thing to get used to. Holmes' nose wrinkles as he looks Sherlock over, and after a moment, shrugs nonchalantly. "At least I can grow facial hair, but no matter."

Conveniently glossing over at least the most of Sherlock's remarking upon his story, Holmes picks out the better parts of things. Selective hearing. He's always had it. "He remarks, as though I'll ever disappoint. In time." Maybe. Possibly. If he felt like it, dammit. "Tobacco, of course; I'm famished," he adds as an afterthought, and he really is gasping for something to smoke already. He hasn't had a puff since he's woken up. Why, it's an outrage.

Sherlock is grinning; Holmes' eyes are rolling. "For goodness' sake, 'Holmes' will suffice. We'll save the Sherlocks in my favor for only the criminally insane," like Mycroft, "shall we?"

"Figured you were hungry," he says with a beat. Tobacco and food are exchangable things.

Sherlock will perhaps begin detailing his exploits, when you do. In fact, he can probably quote lines off of John's blog. Sherlock is particularly guilted a bit right now as well, not as badly as what Holmes has done. Nope, that was on his To-Do List. The current cause of his Watson guilt was the foray into the drugs; which he'd rather not talk about as well.

There is a large part of Sherlock that doesn't want to talk about Jim. The bombings. John strapped to semtex. The pink iPhone. These marred pretty fresh on him and the fact he still doesn't know what happened still stings. He had a moment of vulnerability he wasn't entirely proud of when Moriarty was brought up. The name set him on edge.

"You will, because for one, we both know how much we love the sound of our own voice," he admits. "And admittedly the victorian inflections are rather charming."

He decides to tread on ahead without warning. He finds the corner leading to where the lockers are. In hopes that the spare uniform for himself is in there. He pops his head back to catch Holmes in view. Because he will defy god trying to get the last word, he actually winks as he says. "And at least I can reach the high shelf, Holmes."

He moves to where the lockers are. He had taken a note of Holmes number as he stands by the mans number. Hopefully Holmes had more sense to pack. Hopefully Holmes had brought a skull.

Naturally. Holmes can think of no better replacement for a meal than a full pipe bowl.

The drugs would drum up some skewed Holmesian sympathy, at the least. At least Holmes resides in an era where his own are readily available. Watson still makes his faces (these terrible worried ones that do funny things to the guilt centers in Holmes' gut, sure), but it's nothing compared to a lecture. Though he's had a few of those.

Moriarty would even moreso. He has a strange regard for the topic, a dwindling excitement laced with this overpowering and protective edge of hatred. He aches to ask about him - though a part of him considers if he's even had the pleasure of one's company, Holmes only having discovered the man's existence as something truly nefarious a year prior; perhaps Sherlock doesn't have one, not yet, but there was certainly a shift to his gaze when he was talking of Holmes' shoulder wound. As if he was familiar with someone morally unhinged enough to think it up.

"Ah, and how could I get so lucky, being held in comparison with Her Esteem and her overwhelming," and he waves a vague hand, because he's not in London anymore, and he can be as flippant about government as he wants, "poshness." While he fully recognizes the possibility of the Queen being here and now, he'll cross the bridge when he comes to it. But he does love hearing his own voice, that much is inherently true. "Though you'll hold a pinch more of that pride in your narcissism, I can hear that," Holmes notes, watching Sherlock move towards the locker room.

He's already figured they will be organized by the numbers given on the forearms, for organization. He's also figured that Sherlock will nosily want to see Holmes' locker before revealing his own. Holmes defiantly opens the thing and promptly grasps whatever is the closest thing he can off the top shelf to make a point. It's his pipe, which he then juts into his mouth, proudly, without breaking Sherlock's gaze (and perhaps blows out the dust that may be left within, not particularly injured if any of the flakes may land on Sherlock).

There is otherwise his own jumpsuit, a disgusting grey number of a bathrobe, a strange gold-plated apparatus, a small rolled cloth of -- tools?, and, at the bottom of it all, a violin complete with bow. It's not his Strad, but it will do in a pinch when he's miles from his home. "A modest summary, perhaps," he notes, because he will not give any short gags the time of day they absolutely do not deserve, and instead yanks on his robe in a petulant manner. Too fast, judging by his gritted teeth when he strains his shoulder.

"By Her Esteem we are referring to Mycroft?" he answers curiously. He needed the specificity as he wondered if that was a jab at Mycroft's sexuality. Sometimes Mycroft and the British Government could be exchanged also. So a little clarity would have been grand.

The pronoun play amused him to no end. I? We? Our. No protests from Holmes which meant a level of acceptance had been breached. This is the other you, and we are accepting our circumstances.

He was about to offer help as Holmes made a hand reach out towards the items. on the top shelf. A little bit amused at how he took offense to the jab; the movement of the reach felt like a properly deflected haymarker. He was itching to counter. He does so by standing behind him, to look over at the contents of the locker from over his shoulder.

Peering in, noticing each object and feeling a small stab as how they were nearly similar to his items back home. He was glad to see the bathrobe and the violin. Each object is subject under scrutiny. From every disgusting stain to the bathrobe to every notch on the violin.

"A better summary than mine, although a number of things in common," he says dryly. "Whatever brought us here was certainly better at packing for you."

Mycroft Holmes. Queen Victoria. Holmes pauses a moment, weighing both of the options and finally responding with an enthusiastic shrug of his left shoulder. "Roundabouts," he confirms. At least if he was the Queen, he'd certainly never mind with clothing around the home. As if he didn't do that already, time to time.

Besides, he'd just woken up on a damn spaceship. He was very dramatically reassigning his definition of the word 'impossible'.

What Sherlock will be able to notice is that there seems to be very little here that is actually Holmes' own. They're all in his locker, but in various stages of disuse, none of them matching. The robe has initials on the breast that aren't his own, the violin is dinged in places that no self-respecting Holmes would have left on something treasured. Holmes stands beside him with the locker open for a few seconds longer than he would naturally. He's fully allowing Sherlock his moment of scrutiny.

"Then perhaps they merely like me better," is all he replies in turn, a little cheerily. He pockets the oxygen supply first, and then the rolled cloth, pipe still hanging askew from the corner of his mouth, caught expertly between his teeth. "Did they forget your robe?" And he pauses, giving Sherlock a significant glance over, and then, "Silken." He retrieves the violin and begins to test the tuning.

"I suppose that leaves one question: The difference between our moments of... 'capture', as it were."

"Yes, all I had in my locker was government secrets and an iPhone," he says moodily obviously a bit jealous of the ratty bathrobe. Although, he did get his own at the little drop off in Tansei. He'd been able to replace a number of things in the station to make his room feel more like the sitting room of 221b. A slight admission to home making went so much further. It was a slight admission to loss, to the fact that he had no idea if there was a possibility of him returning. One of the things he was missing was a skull.

He was sincerly happy the funny hat wasn't there. People around the ship had mentions of a deerstalker attached to the Victorian counterpart. He never understood deerstalkers. They just sort of covered your ears and messed up your hair. At the talk of the robe he simply retorts, "I prefer mine a cotton blend; let's glaze over the differences of our dress robes and discuss the differences of our capture. Yes. Point."

"In my world - there is a man, no, perhaps, a better term for him would be a spider," he starts as he makes his way to his own locker. He doesn't quite have a bathrobe but his coat was there. I suppose he'll put that on as a form of decency for now and get it washed later. God, he was not his brother.

"You're in obvious acquaintance," he says smoothly as he walks towards a significant amount of lockers away. "Perhaps, he doesn't need an introduction,"

He opens locker 198. A white usbFlash Drive, the extra uniform, the pink iPhone, his coat acquired from Tansei. Two more towels. A bottle of the blue Grav Pouch liquid. He puts on the coat; similar to his old one. Double breasted and black as he does the buttons up. He doesn't turn around to see Holmes reaction. He would allow himself that level of privacy.

What in the hell... is an 'eye phone'?

Unfortunately, Holmes didn't have a skull to keep him company. His own sitting room back home had been a bit more, ah, ostentatious. Lots of places to lose a skull, by the time he'd finished with it. Besides, that devil nanny would more than likely have tossed the thing. Heavens only knew how many experiments she'd ruined before he'd forbidden her from touching his things. He didn't have a hat either, and didn't even own a deerstalker. No, he preferred a fedora, himself. Way less pretentious.

It was lucky he had his pipe now. It gave him something to do, some means of distraction to keep him grounded at the mention of, yes, a man with whom he was very familiar. It didn't take a veritable genius to understand who Sherlock was talking about, not when they were both so similar, would both attribute the same darkness to the same people. Holmes methodically packs his pipe with a big of tobacco from the stash in his pocket, patting his pockets for some means to light it. His expression is cloudy, very carefully composed into something blank.

"And therefore, I presume, you were amidst a tea party when you were apprehended," he replies lightly, sardonically.

"If we call life or death situations tea parties, then yes." he says sharply. Thinking of clever ways to put this. It was, in his perspective, the final show down with Moriarty and himself. He had no idea how he was going to get out of that situation alive; and the random porting to space came like a double edged blessing. With the mild hint of recognition, Sherlock takes that as a signal to go on.

"There was a game," he intones. "A game with rules of his devising, laid out across london and crafted the same way a spider does his webs. Lives were at stake, and the game was on."

He does up the buttons. Tightens the coat a bit, fixes it so that he looks mostly clothed. The lack of pants was distracting but he'd get in uniform when things calm down a bit.

"John Watson, clearly you are in possession of your own. " he states clearly. So you understand that this one is mine is quietly stated along with the, you know I need him. "John, was put in a lot of danger, the sort that leads to him strapped to bombs with gunmen aimed at his direction."

And this is because he wondered off when we had a row, still echoes. He and John have yet to actually discuss anything about it. Too happy to be alive; so he would let that slide for now. But there was still so much guilt; and the fact that the semtex was still there - in the locker next to his in fact, pained him a little. The memory, meeting Moriarty and feeling that small ounce of fear.

He pulls out a cigarette carton from his front jacket pocket. Sliding the lighter out of the carton out to show, but not offer it to him. He withdraws it back.

"Oxygen Garden, best place to smoke - it's the hub of this ship's illicit activities, we ought to be allowed some privacy," he says far too quickly. A way for Holmes to note that they were treading on touchy ground.

It's not that Holmes has any intention of 'stealing' this Sherlock's John Watson. Though he's completely, without end, starkly curious as to how the men differ and yet coincide, he would never and could never. Partially because, being Sherlock Holmes, he knows just how much John Watson means to Sherlock Holmes. More importantly because, no matter what he's going to meet later, what he looks like, what he acts like, what he sounds like, he's just quite plainly not going to be Holmes' John Watson. And it's a fact that he'd never really be able to shake. He knows it without even meeting the man.

Not for the first time, Holmes quelches a sharp feeling in his chest, one that he doesn't wish to identify nor lend any credence to.

Sherlock won't give him the lighter, and so Holmes doesn't even make a move to reach out for it, edging his pipe from his mouth to his hand and peering at Sherlock knowingly. There's a part of him that has a strong feeling Sherlock is about to be telling him a very familiar story. Not entirely the same, no, but it wasn't until the first and last time James Moriarty reared his head that his plans began to truly unfold. Not across merely London, however. Much more large scale.

They can't discuss this here. A relocation is necessary, and though Holmes doesn't quite know what the Oxygen Garden is, he can wager a sufficient guess.

"We wouldn't want to disturb anyone with our smoking, of course," he offers in return, giving a small smile. Pipe back in mouth, he wraps his own suit around the violin to protect it, carts that under his good arm and gestures with his other hand as if to say, 'Lead the way.'

He does want to hear everything about his Watson. From the little things like his History to how steady his hands were. He vaguely wondered if they had the same DNA Structure or even looked remotely alike. If the other Watson also smelled faintly of jam. He walks on towards the nearest lift, presses a button for it to open.

He's used to coming down to the medbay and visit John. Upon entering the lift, it slowly dawns on him that he will most probably have to explain what the lift is among other things. He makes a vague mental note to teach him how to use the network. He tries to recall a vague history of elevators (he's kept that of course, but deleted any knowledge of the solar system).

"This is a lift, it functions as a way to move across spaces rather quickly," he says slowly. He really hoped Holmes wasn't going to question him; he has yet to be entirely puzzled by the way space mechanics worked.

He surveys the lift panel and hits one he's labelled 'Oxygen Garden'. You will notice, strips of paper taped to the sides of the lift, Mr. Holmes. Sherlock has made it his personal mission to label everything. There are at least a good hundred lifts on board and he's half way done. If Holmes wishes to inspect Sherlock's writing, he will find the notes to be written in his own hand. The semblances in their penmanship, uncanny. The lift starts, and the ride is quick. He side eyes Holmes occasionally to study the other man's reaction.

Again like routine, Sherlock pops out when the door opens. Leading the way. He surveys the area briefly for familiar faces out for a smoke. Expecting Mouse or possibly Cambridge to lurk by. There is no trail of smoke in the air so he can assume they are alone. He walks towards his usual spot; a tree trunk laid down horizontally. Big enough to serve as a makeshift chair.

Today he had met himself and they were about to talk about Moriarty, the smoke was a necessity. He had picked up the smoking again; rationing himself to at least three sticks a day. He came home from Tansei with mostly cigarettes. Practically three months supply. He couldn't risk going short; and without cases going cold turkey was not an option. He draws the lighter back up; lights his cigarette up and draws out a slow drag.

"We're discussing Moriarty," he says sternly.

No shit, Sherlock.

There's a myriad of confusing elements that he doesn't have much time to process - the lift, specifically, is the biggest one for the moment. It's not as if he's not familiar with a pulley system and the idea of a lift, but it's an entirely different thing when he considers the freight capacity of this thing. Barring that, it's clearly advanced from the series of ropes, checks, balances, manual raising or lowering by either man or by crank, but all Sherlock has to do is press a button. Buttons in his own handwriting, just about - the slant, the pressure, the flourishes, and the general hurried chickenscratch of it, at the least. It's not a difficult leap to guess who's labeled the lift.

He thankfully doesn't ask any questions, if not just because he doesn't imagine that Sherlock really knows much about the thing, how it works and everything else therein. It's not something Holmes would deem as entirely important in his hunter-gatherer type of existence. Perhaps if pertaining to a case, he would learn, but otherwise.

The Oxygen Garden is as estimated - an oxygen 'factory' will, of course, require trees. A repetitive title, but the repetition is likely referring to the importance of it. There's no reason for trees within a building, particularly this many, unless they serve a particular purpose. If one wants something beautiful, they'll use flowers, perhaps ferns, that which isn't as capable of completing the oxygenation process. The trees mean there isn't a natural air supply within their surroundings.

No air in space? It doesn't make sense. The universe is nothing but a wide expanse. There aren't any windows. Perhaps they're merely underground - deep underground. The attempt to convince those within that they were, in fact, in space would directly pertain to a more difficult escape attempt. But it's only a theory.

His thoughts are churning with elevators, with trees, with ground, with Earth and that which is outside of it, and it's not until Sherlock speaks up again, 'we're discussing Moriarty,' that Holmes' thoughts are brought zeroed back into the one subject, the one at hand. He shoots Sherlock a look, withering and mildly condescending. Of course they're discussing Moriarty - who else in the world would be so important and so very poisonous as him?

Holmes sets his things beside them both, propping himself up onto the tree trunk and cupping his pipe in a hand. "If you will." He moves his gaze between the pipe and then to Sherlock. "I seem to have injured my shoulder. You'll know to keep to only the parts which aren't boring, of course."

There is natural air supply running through the whole ship, and the Gardeners are taking their sweet precious time to ruin it. Sherlock sometimes think, this will kill them before anything else space can throw at them will; but then he decides that he would probably result to killing people if not for the smoking habit.

Sherlock's look back at "himself" serious. A part of him had wished that it was false. That perhaps Moriarty was a villian that only existed in his world, an optimistic thought. But he knows a scar like that could only come from someone. Only Moriarty would have been able to get that close.

He tries to think of a place to start. Keep only the parts which aren't boring? He decides then to ignore the melodrama and skip on ahead to the deduction. The good bits. He thinks back and tries to filter out the cases. The first one, was the Cabbie in a Study in Pink. He withdraws, was he really going to call it that? While John's work read like romanticized drivel he had to admit (but perhaps never to John) that the title stuck.

How would he explain this in terms a Victorian man would understand? "John keeps an account of cases we've undertaken together in a form of a memoir." he explains. A blog was essentially a memoir. But now to explain the more difficult parts, the internet. "In the future, there will exist a network of information wherein just anyone can publish any sort of content and the information can be accessed at anyone's finger tips. I maintain a sort of place within the network where I can publish my research in the fields of deduction. John maintains said memoir. Over the span of time, these two things had attracted a certain amount of attention. Followers, if you will. Fans of John's half hearted caricatures of me where he blatantly ignores the scientific process. But these places began attracting attention-,"

"The network can be used to instantly transfer and receive messages from two parties and I had begun receiving a series of encoded, 'threatening' messages. No doubt, from Moriarty in vain attempts to capture my attention. The name was familiar, whispered around the criminal circuits but with no evidence or a face to attribute it too - it lead to a futile search. Eventually, he had gotten my attention another way. He left a series of cases for me to solve, timed with each hostage attached to a bomb and held at gunpoint. If the hostage decided to begin describing him, any detail that would give me any inkling to his identity caused the death of the hostage. The hostages were placed in a crowded location where the bomb could easily detonate to cause the lives of many. Needless to say, I had managed to solve every case - simple enough, a fraudulent establishment, a round of tetanus poisoning, a drowned swimmer and a fake painting."

"We had agreed upon a meeting and somehow in the span between the last case and our meeting, John had found himself kidnapped."

Oh, yes, on the very big list of things he prefers not talk about. John's kidnapping and Moriarty. Parts of him know that his fault. If he hadn't pushed the matter too hard, John wouldn't have left. He never knew when to stop pushing.

"Bomb strapped to him, at gun point," his words are calm, scientific almost. The scene is replaying from the back of his mind. "I had managed to get the bomb of John; but then found that he had brought back up with his gun men. A wall of bullets aimed at our direction. I had stolen John's gun at the time and then aimed it at the bomb,"

This is everything he recalls in summary. Every moment of that day, is embellished in his mind. He hates not knowing, he hates the gaps he cannot build bridges to cross. There are a thousand ways he could have dealt with that situation differently? Why didn't he call Lestrade or Mycroft? Why hadn't he suspected John was missing? He folds his hands behind the back of his neck.

He is transfixed at his shoes for moments, and does not look up at himself as he manages a small declaration of: "Tell me, everything."

Holmes remarkably, almost impossibly, stays quiet throughout. Not a single interjection, question, debate, a pick into a fact or a piece of evidence. He doesn't understand this network that makes messages instantly interchangeable, not entirely. He wants to ask more about each of the cases, about why they were significant and used by Moriarty, and it could be inferred, most certainly, but it somehow doesn't seem particularly important at present. He has more glaring issues to address first.

The similarities are certainly revealing. Watson's memoirs, it's not as if Holmes hasn't gotten into his scribblings, thrown half of the language back into his face, and, on more than one occasion, started marking his own commentary on the damn things. Sherlock was right about that much - Watson's writing was sensationalized, romanticized, and most certainly exaggerated in the places that hardly needed to be. 'A Study in Scarlet' indeed. One sentence devoted to his deductions involving the man's tobacco ash and an entire chapter revolving around who's his what's and Holmes hadn't bothered to store the name, it wasn't important to him any longer.

But beyond that, the bombs. The bombs are similar. And John Watson's endangerment. But that much is obvious if one is trying to get under the skin of Sherlock Holmes.

'Tell me, everything.'

For a few long moments afterward, he's silent, carefully patching together both of their stories, comparing, contrasting, weighing and everything inbetween. The cases, different, but small details, similar or identical, remarkably. And at the end, both with a degree of uncertainty, plucked before they can be given their answers. There's a lazy cloud of blue smoke pooling out of Holmes' nose. "The terrorist bombings," he finally speaks up, giving Sherlock a brief reprieve from his own story, "were not actually terrorist bombings. They were too selective, and caused too perfect of reactions, as so many overlooked and I, of course, saw. The year was 1891, and the trail one that I'd pursued for the entirety of it, and though the advancements were many, they were regrettably small."

Just what was important, just the solid and important story for the time being, and he has to keep weighing what to leave out and what to include. "I had apprehended a letter from-" Oh, and there's another subject, on which Holmes' voice only hitches for a split second before he continues on as though unbothered. "-one of Moriarty's employees. Delivered by one of London's most advanced surgeons, who was unfortunately lost in the process. An important reveal, in his death. The letter he was delivering was from another under Moriarty's employ, intended for his sister. The sister had obtained delicate information about Moriarty's operation, though she was not aware of what she knew. Naturally. The knowledge put her safely in the warpath of the devil himself, and a brother would never do so intentionally.

"The idea, similarly, was to stop the next bombing, in France. Correctly inducing that the sister and brother had been a part of the revolution, we sought out her information and determined the placement of the bomb," wrongly, mistakenly, and there's a telltale way his eyes divert down to the wafting smoke when he mentions it. "Though too late," he chooses his words wisely, "and yet the blast site was telling in and of itself. The bombing, another line weaved into Moriarty's spider's web, and an elegant cover to a sniper's assassination. Alfred Meinhard's death alleviated the ownership of his weapons company to Moriarty, aided by Sebastian Moran." And there's a moment where he eyes Sherlock curiously as though hoping to find a hint of recognition that he won't, not yet.

"Moriarty would, of course, go to the factory in question, which takes us from France to Germany. You see-- With the innocuous already under his belt - the medicine, the supplies, the metaphorical bandages - the man could branch out into perhaps more sinister shares, the guns, the bullets, and, oh, the firearms there were. Now that he owned the supply, all that remained was to create the demand. I trust you follow." A veritable world war. Inspired by the finest of London's underbelly.

"Germany would then, in turn, take us to the peace summit in Switzerland, where it was to be that a surgeon's pride and joy, an experiment to successful alter the gypsy woman's brother to look identical to an ambassador within, was meant to assassinate another ambassador. What better way to inspire a war than the nations seemingly at each other's throats? But the brother, Rene," rest his soul and all that, and it wasn't that Rene's death was what bothered him, but it was the matter of it having been within his grasp to STOP it, "was apprehended.

"The last loose end to tie off being Moriarty's finances, a sum large enough to tide him over, to allow him to bide his time until perhaps humanity devolved into a war of its own, unaided. A small matter: A leather bound book he kept on his person at all times. The only solution was to get him close enough and, perhaps," he delicately rubs a thumb against his injured shoulder, which is, in fact, bleeding through the robe in the smallest amount, a friendly reminder of that night, "distracted enough." Holmes gives a wan smile. "But the encryption was no problem. The injury, however, in a fight? Atop a balcony high above the Reichenbach Falls?"

And a moment's silence, where he thinks, and puffs, and the smoke is unnecessarily abundant, but it's soothing. "Being thwarted left the man sufficiently incensed, as you'll understand, and so in an effort to keep him from lashing out at something," someone, "he knew I treasured most- I fell. I took him with me. I survived." The 'he didn't' lays stale in the air, as Holmes grips his pipe with tight fingers. His hands are shaking only in the slightest, and he doesn't wish to give himself away so easily. "And thus I was abducted onto a spaceship, apparently." He peers up at Sherlock, expectantly.

“Spaceships are making a habit of intervening stand-offs,” he says solemnly as Holmes finishes.

He takes every statement into consideration. A few elements of similarity were laced with the haunting idea that Holmes’ ordeal seemed so much more final. While his ordeal with Moriarty was no laughing matter, or one he could easily brush of – they played with lives, while Holmes’ Moriarty played with nations. Holmes was older, so perhaps their little game had taken the time to expound to something of this proportion. He doesn’t want to admit to any notion of excitement nor will he cater to any thought of dread. He sits somewhere in between.

He lays still in thought. Small fidgeting as Holmes spoke; the occasional rhythmic drum of his fingers against the crumpled carton. The cigarette wedged between two fingers as if they had belonged there. As Holmes had his pipe, Sherlock had his smokes. He makes a mental note to introduce the man to cigarette patches and the joys of three patches in the events that the situation would make it available.

He aligns similarities and wonders if he can append Sherlock’s actions to future situations. The name Sebastian Moran was virtually unknown to him. He supposes that so are at a lot of names. He’s this close to stepping into his mind palace, knocking on its doors and checking if Sebastian Moran is in. He’s trying to see if the names: Alfred Meinhard or Rene are ringing any bells; before his attention turns to the names Holmes has yet to utter. Through the entirety of this conversation, Holmes has yet to even breathe the syllables of John Watson’s name. He takes a moment of consideration as to why. Being myself, what could have possibly stopped me from speaking about John? Guilt? Anger? Resentment? The fall. Holmes had gone for the fall. Balcony, Reichebach Falls and the words high accentuated the statement. He measures the plausibility’s of him staying alive. Did John think he was dead?

Sherlock then thinks about the feasibility of that decision. Having John think he was dead would give him ample time to deal with Moriarty’s men without John’s life at stake. He’s seen John in a semtex jacket with snipers aimed and at the ready to fire. There is still guilt attached to that memory but if it meant a small assurance of John’s safety. How would he bring it up?

“Congratulations, are well due for apprehending the Napoleon of Crime. How did you and your John Watson, celebrate?”

Edited 2012-01-26 13:00 (UTC)

It's instantaneous that Holmes runs over a short analysis of his story, of the details within, what he's mentioned, who he's mentioned, and thus he realizes his own error. Perhaps a subconscious one, or perhaps a more educated one that realizes what sort of tone in which he would regard John Watson's voice, one that he'd be understandably unable to mask given the situation. His mentions of his friend have been brief thus far, and he realizes this, not wanting to linger too much on the topic. It's uncomfortable. Damn. The question would be forthcoming. It would take, of course, Sherlock Holmes to notice the absence of something so paramount.

He knows his pause is conspicuous, and won't go without notice by Sherlock, but so would any subsequent fallacies, or other elaborations, so he'll take the time to think of his answer. The smoke spills idly over his lips, and he leans more heavily onto his free hand, braced on a crossed leg.

"I'd hardly time to see him afterward, hadn't I?" Which isn't false, not really, if perhaps an incorrect rendering of the truth. There is a part of him that isn't comfortable discussing John Watson, not yet. It's a very large part, that twists into more corners of his life than he'd actually and thoroughly realized. There are many things that remind him of the man, far too many, whether directly or indirectly, and though they're less frequent in a place so unfamiliar as this- There is a very strong and glaringly obvious one that he has yet to really consider. This Sherlock's John.

Embarrassment, is this? His lie? Caution regarding something Sherlock hasn't or may not ever experience? He's not sure why he doesn't want Sherlock to know just yet. But he doesn't. "On the slim chance he should happen to show up here, I suppose we'll have to ask him." If he'll speak to me. "Watson," and his voice is stilted for a moment, and he curses himself for it, "that is."

Holmes leans back, and stretches his shoulders with a wince, catlike and languid if not for the stiffness of his shoulder injury. "Many thanks, at any rate."

Observation. A love for meticulous attention to detail was one of the things that made Sherlock Holmes who he was. He wanted to brush it off as just that, but perhaps for the most part – it is because these were names he was actively seeking. There were portions of Holmes’ manner, of speech; little tics and folds of fingers he couldn’t deny were a mirror of his own; to say they were at par about how they felt about their best friend was going to be no grand leap.

Silence sometimes speaks volumes and the pause is a set of encyclopedia that Sherlock sets out to read. The shift of weight in his movement, the sudden draw of the pipe and the way Holmes lips puff out smoke. Each movement is a chapter. The statement is most curious. He’s never lied to himself, convincingly in front of a mirror so the differentiation is a bit harder. He had a fondness for claims people couldn’t exactly counter or wordings to give things a particular flair.

“I’m sure you had something to keep you occupied,” he hints - perhaps a spaceship, perhaps a marksman or the need to dust off spider webs. “I’ve consequently decided to abandon that train of thought, this place is illogical people are brought haphazardly as if almost as random. A slim chance is as good as any.”

He does want to meet Holmes’ Watson. The picture painted itself so easily; a war doctor invalidated from Afghanistan who wrote – memoirs. The chances of Watson setting foot on this ship, he realizes, are the same as a James Moriarty popping out of the stasis fluid.

"Unnecessary, Gratitude."

"Well, I'd certainly caught the devil himself but that wasn't to say I'd captured his right hand demon," Holmes returned, with a smile and a charismatic regard that could almost be construed as natural. Kept busy. Of course he'd kept busy. He'd spent a week perusing the Swiss countryside with naught but a mental picture and the stray murder attempts aimed in his direction to keep him busy. Sebastian Moran knew very well that Sherlock Holmes was alive, and it would do Sherlock very well to change all pretenses of that.

He already had a myriad of wounds to show for it. A bullet graze at his left flank. Three previously cracked ribs from a nasty fall, another from a well-used pair of brass knuckles. The worst of which was a gash, one that hadn't quite fully healed, right in his gut. It had been less than neatly stitched, and for a while, Holmes had feared that the infection had gotten to it. If it spread, it would have entered his heart. Strangely, here, it was no longer an issue. He didn't quite understand.

"Gratitude may be unnecessary, but you know very well - or, at the very least, will LEARN very well - that employing such a tactic can only benefit you in the long run. You're a younger me and that much is obvious. I had no need for such silly pleasantries before a long-standing turn of events in my life either." And there's a way he doesn't elaborate on that but his yes shift downward, guiltily, that could only mean one person important enough to have taught him so. John. "Now. What you're suggesting is that the haphazard nation of the place leaves no need to determine a pattern, or to even look for one? How do you suggest this is approached?"

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/so late orz

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