Edit: For ease's sake putting what's wanted up here!
You Play:
JOHN
Moriarty
Mycroft
Lestrade
Mrs. Hudson
+ Originals, villains, or others.
I play:
SHERLOCK (primary, da awesomeness)
Moriarty (Immortal beloved. Genius villain. Resemblance to Master anyone? Moffat you evil man).
Watson (think I got him down too)
Mrs. Hudson (as minor NPC)
Others (As minor NPCs)
Hello all. Don't mean to scare anyone away by the word 'serious.' I've been roleplaying since about 13. To me, writing is like breathing, which is why it naturally pours out at a speed of 120 words per minute. I simply have to get my thoughts out fast. What I am looking for are other writers who have a deep adoration for the series and these excellently remodeled characters (though the originals are also fantastic of course). I fell in love with the wit of the scripts, the depth of characters, and overall the plots and structure.
Whom can I play? Well, for the past however many months I have perfected Sherlock. I don't want to boast, but I think have him down very well (And hey I'd love to play with a Sherlock just the same to learn more!) I roleplay both in mushclients or through email (email is better). At the moment I am doing a piece which involves me writing Sherlock and Watson, as well as side characters, while a friend of mine is writing Woland from Master and Margarita.
I would /love/ to roleplay with a Moriarty or Watson. I can also do Moriarty (Villains are a favorite of mine to play). Lestrade, and other characters are certainly welcome, and we could integrate our storylines, however those are the two most wanted. Ahh, also, Sebastian Moran would be a pleasure to see. BBC type originally written Sebastian.
As for sexuality since that's what a lot of people pursue - I am completely open minded about it, however my goal here is the depth of human condition and passion, not a quick feature-character-sex scene. I know a lot of people want that and I respect it, however it needs to be deep, and believable. Believable character is a must with me. I don't let any of my own personality or "out of character" thoughts seep through, because to me that distracts from the story and the level of intensity in it.
Here are examples of styles of me and my friends. Now, this is going to be giant, but please know that I usually type about 1-2 large paragraphs per pose. And they grow shorter if the said setting requires it. However me and Woland are quite busy so these poses are more or less short stories all on their own. lol. Thanks for reading and not dying yet
)
Post Fall, my pose, my Watson & characters:
The best place to hide is always in the plain, open space. Sherlock blends with the crowd of a busy tourist street, sitting at a table of a cafe named “Britain Extravaganza.” Despite his desire to concentrate, to mouth his theories about Ronald Adair’s case, he forces himself to be... the tourist. A little trick that Moriarty taught him. But how he hates these clothes, these awful, terrible, distasteful tourist clothes. Jeans, baseball cap, tennis shoes... ah well. It’s for science. He’s got “I <3 Britain” painted all over him, which immediately loses interest of all. The foreigners think him to be one of them, one of the masses, the natives think him to be an idiot unworthy of a glance.
And Watson won’t look twice. Although he just did. Sherlock lowers his cap, and turns another page of the “Royal Wedding” journal. He isn’t really reading that atrocious material. He is scribbling over the magazine text with a black sharpie. The point etches tense, strung, cursive letters:“Early 30s. Banker. Father owns. Affluent family. Collects clocks and watches.”
Oh it took some digging around to find those details. Prowling the crime scene as a janitor, bribing, spying, dabbing traces of Q-tips against the tables, hiring an old fellow hacker under a pseudonym of yet another hacker to get through Adair’s ridiculous security and discover his love for children. Not that he cared. “Unmarried. Rents. Party. Present girlfriend.” Who else but Watson to go to her, to talk to her? Oh of course –him- but he is /dead/. How inconvenient it is to be dead.
Sherlock’s nose wrinkles at the thought, and when he looks up he watches Watson walk out of the bookstore. Although his fingers tighten in anticipation, he doesn’t act. He continues sitting, watching his former assistant hold out his arm for a taxi.
***
Another weekly trip to the psychologist. Watson drags a hand through his hair, heaves a tired sigh, gathers himself from the chair in his apartment on Baker Street, and calls Mrs. Hudson goodbye. “Be safe dear. I’ll be visiting my daughter today so don’t expect any tea in the evening!” She calls back. He doesn’t hear. He wears a beige woven sweater, a pair of blue slacks, brown boots, and a short, light jacket. His leg aches. He grits his teeth and focuses on anger. Calming, cooling anger. And then, he is in control again. His hand raises impatiently as he fetches a taxi and climbs inside. The windows are so tinted he almost thought it was Mycroft. He’d welcome Moriarty himself if that was the case. Or the Study in Pink killer.
Watson mouths the address, adds a polite please, and sits back, staring out of the window. It’s starting to trickle. Rainy. The car starts. In front of him, the driver holds up an envelope. Watson raises a brow, asks “Is that for me?” But gets no answer. He rolls his eyes. “Look why don’t you just have Mycroft phone me like a normal person?” He waits, and the envelope is still held out to him. The doctor’s hand stretches irritably and he snatches the thing, opens it, and reads.
“Keep yourself distant. Divorce yourself from emotion.” He stops reading. Freezes. Changes. Yet remains the same. Sherlock’s words, spoken to him that unpleasant evening when the detective doubted himself after the HOUND experiment, come flashing and echoing in his head. He lifts his eyes, and continues reading. “I’m alive, but must remain dead. For your own well being.”
The letters end. Watson stares at the parchment. His eyes raise slowly to the driver. Despite the statue-like tension in his body, he utters the words. “Stop the car.”
“No.” Comes an all-too-familiar voice. Sherlock drives, and he drives to the psych’s office. “I need your help on this case.”
The sound of paper crushing and crumpling comes from behind. Watson holds it in a fist. He reaches for the door, but a click of a finger from the driver engages the locks. “Let me out. Now.”
“I know you must be angry. It’s a natural emotion to feel in your situation. Now listen. I’m not sure if the assassins are still around. The Russians left a while ago, but I must be completely sure.”
“Let me out, or I will make a scene.”
Sherlock fixes the rearview mirror on Watson’s eyes. He looks withdrawn into a safe cocoon made of steel and iron. The kind of shield he put up in Afghanistan. Only this is different. “If you want to punch me I would not be too happy, but would oblige for your sake, however now isn’t the time.”
Silence.
Sherlock drives. Although he looks outwardly patient, inside, a storm is brewing. Emotions? What is this? “Well?” He asks with a hint of irritability. There comes no response. Watson gazes out the window while his taxi driver takes him all the way to the psychiatrist’s.
When he parks, Sherlock drapes an arm over the back seat to gaze back at his assistant. Former assistant. There is withdrawal there, detachment, and it doesn’t make sense.
The veteran gives Sherlock a brief gaze, cold and simple, holds out a twenty pound bill, and waits. A gentle pressure of Sherlock’s finger frees the doors, and Watson gets out. Without looking back, he goes into the office. And sits. And listens. And nods.
***
“What was that?!” The detective erupts in the audience of his empty apartment. He throws up his hands, kicks off his shoes, tears off his jacket, and flings himself into the hammock. It drapes along his body while the man fusses over his cigarettes in his pockets. Finding a new pack, he slides one between his lips and ignites the lighter a little too harshly.
But then, he inhales. Nicotine, sweet, calming nicotine. It rushes through his brain, fast enough that Sherlock can close his eyes and savor the sensation. Out comes the stainless steel ‘snuff’ box. He pricks a small hollow bullet shell from it and holds it up to his nostril, and inhales. Another breath follows, this one sharp, into the other hole. He washes down the rush with a long drag and breathes out dragon-coils of smoke.
“He is just acting up over being left in the dark. With his intuitive ability it was the best choice for him, and the best choice for me. He’d have given it away, unknowingly, in body language.” Sherlock breathes the words. They come like a fast wave of thought, uttered to no one, for no one.
It’s not Watson that’s particularly bothering him. It’s the fact that he is somehow unsettled by a clearly predictable reaction. Sherlock sniffs, closes one nostril with a slender finger, and inhales the remainder of the white powder. He takes another thoughtful drag, and picks up his Royal Wedding journal, eyeing his scribbles. “It wasn’t the girlfriend. How is the killer related to Adair? And if he isn’t? It’s been too long. Moriarty is dead.” But it’s too interesting to pass up, too interesting to act on the possibility of a trap. After all, he almost took the taxi driver’s pill, just to prove he was right. Only Watson ruined it. Some part of him let go of that unknown truth, while the other still thirsted.
Of course, he still has the pill. He wouldn’t just let it go. Sherlock kept it, for the opportune moment, until surety claims him completely, to eat it himself, or to give it to another. The poison pill. It was only too easy to swap the evidence.
***
When Watson returns home, he isn’t surprised to see Sherlock at the desk. The curtains are drawn, they are always drawn shut when Watson leaves. Mrs. Hudson opens them, but she isn’t home. Sherlock looks up from the newspaper. This time, a real one, discussing the progress, or the lack of it, on the Ronald Adair case. “They are contemplating calling it a suicide now.” He says with a feigned note of amusement. Watson doesn’t budge. He gazes at Sherlock as if he were an inanimate object.
“And how long do you propose to use the juvenile method of silent treatment? It works quite well on children. What do you want me to say? Would you rather be dead? Should I not have come, eventually?” Silence. “What?” Sherlock snaps the newspaper with a crackle and sits up straight. How he got here is a miracle, unseen. An orchestrated, carefully thought-out miracle. Getting out will be the difficult part.
Watson goes to make tea, but notices a cup is waiting for him. Hot, with sugar, freshly steeped. A dash of milk. He sits down in his chair, picks it up, and takes a small sip, his eyes still fixed on the detective. “I’m not mad, Sherlock.” He speaks at last.
“Of course you are. That vein in your left hand shows through more when your temperature rises. I’ve seen it before, on several occasions, the latest when we ran from Lestrade.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Use our memories to get me back. I’m done. It’s not because you left me.” He takes another sip and sets the cup down on a cherry oak table. The vet leans back, presses his spine into the cushion, relaxes his neck, and takes a soft, calming breath. “It worked before. I thought we had trust in each other. This isn’t trust, Sherlock. It’s use. Plain and simple use. I don’t want a friend only when its convenient to be friends.”
Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but Watson raises his hand, commanding an odd silence. The two gaze at each other. It’s almost as if the detective holds a hint of wonderment in those calculating eyes of his. Astonishment? No, surely not. Doubt? Its just his way to get to Watson, it must be.
“I understand the danger. I became your roommate because of it, remember? Now you’ve snapped at me before. You’ve had your moments. But I still felt there was a mutual investment. You left me behind. Temporarily, yes, but without a single clue of the truth. Sherlock, you couldn’t trust me with the truth, so why should you trust me now? Since I saw you today, I thought about this long and hard. You can’t trust people, the way you are. I know you tried, you really have, with me. But there is no point beating a dead horse. You don’t need a psychologist. You know everything. And if you don't, you can figure out anything. You don’t need /me/. I’m just your stage light, I’m the guy who makes the curtains go up, but you’ve got it all yourself. I’m glad you are alive, I really am. But we can’t continue like we used to, not anymore.”
Sherlock’s forearms recline at the edge of the table. His wrists are relaxed, long fingers slightly bent, unmoving. His blue eyes study Watson, watch him, pry him, but he can’t absorb any doubt. Is that really it for them? His gaze grows unfocused as he starts slipping into the cavern of his mind, a cave now, not a palace, throwing twisted shadows of reality into his brain.
“Ah.” He replies, ever-not-Sherlocky. His fingers curl, nails drag and fumble against the newspaper, and his eyes slip, move down over it, the scribbles of Adair’s case.
Watson downs his cup in three easy gulps. He glances down at his hand. And then to Sherlock. Sluggishly, his mouth twists and his brows come together. “You... you didn’t really...?”
“I thought you’d say that.” Sherlock interrupts the other, inclining his chin onto his carefully folded hands. There is the elegance back, the confidence, the shadow of a smile.
“You drugged me?” The other stumbles to stand, drops the cup, thought it doesn’t break but simply clatters against the wooden table. Watson’s hand comes up against the wall to support his swaying, unsteady body. Sherlock’s pale face grows more and more blurry. It’s closer now. His first itches to punch it, yet he too must resist. Not that he could, not under this concoction.
“This doesn’t make sens... why would you..? What you think I’ll forgive you in the morning..?”
“Yes.”
“You bloody... bastard...”
Fading now, his limbs and legs grow so heavy that he starts to sink. Even the floor feels soft, except it isn’t the floor. It’s Sherlock’s hands, draping, clasping a secure hold around the other, laying him back into some cushioned warm seat... warm, is that from him? The pale face lingers close. It’s not sharp, not defined; it’s cloudy just like when he saw him die. Watson’s palm reaches out and paws Sherlock’s face. Smack. It wasn’t meant as a hit but it comes down quite clumsy, fingers sprawled over chin and lips, index laying atop the nostril. “Is this real?” He mouths in the haze of the drug. He tries to squeeze. Maybe he can cut off all his oxygen, see him die all over again like before, finish it, because surely....
“It’s all a dream.” The whisper comes, low and private, but there’s flesh against Watson’s palm and he can feel the warmth behind the skin. It’s smooth. Too smooth to be real. The doctor can feel the lips that cushion his thumb, the lips that speak those muffled words. The sensation lingers like skin memorizing the vibration of vocal chords. He crashes into oblivion, feeling the gentle tickle of black curls brushing his neck.
[u]
You Play:
JOHN
Moriarty
Mycroft
Lestrade
Mrs. Hudson
+ Originals, villains, or others.
I play:
SHERLOCK (primary, da awesomeness)
Moriarty (Immortal beloved. Genius villain. Resemblance to Master anyone? Moffat you evil man).
Watson (think I got him down too)
Mrs. Hudson (as minor NPC)
Others (As minor NPCs)
Hello all. Don't mean to scare anyone away by the word 'serious.' I've been roleplaying since about 13. To me, writing is like breathing, which is why it naturally pours out at a speed of 120 words per minute. I simply have to get my thoughts out fast. What I am looking for are other writers who have a deep adoration for the series and these excellently remodeled characters (though the originals are also fantastic of course). I fell in love with the wit of the scripts, the depth of characters, and overall the plots and structure.
Whom can I play? Well, for the past however many months I have perfected Sherlock. I don't want to boast, but I think have him down very well (And hey I'd love to play with a Sherlock just the same to learn more!) I roleplay both in mushclients or through email (email is better). At the moment I am doing a piece which involves me writing Sherlock and Watson, as well as side characters, while a friend of mine is writing Woland from Master and Margarita.
I would /love/ to roleplay with a Moriarty or Watson. I can also do Moriarty (Villains are a favorite of mine to play). Lestrade, and other characters are certainly welcome, and we could integrate our storylines, however those are the two most wanted. Ahh, also, Sebastian Moran would be a pleasure to see. BBC type originally written Sebastian.
As for sexuality since that's what a lot of people pursue - I am completely open minded about it, however my goal here is the depth of human condition and passion, not a quick feature-character-sex scene. I know a lot of people want that and I respect it, however it needs to be deep, and believable. Believable character is a must with me. I don't let any of my own personality or "out of character" thoughts seep through, because to me that distracts from the story and the level of intensity in it.
Here are examples of styles of me and my friends. Now, this is going to be giant, but please know that I usually type about 1-2 large paragraphs per pose. And they grow shorter if the said setting requires it. However me and Woland are quite busy so these poses are more or less short stories all on their own. lol. Thanks for reading and not dying yet
) Post Fall, my pose, my Watson & characters:
The best place to hide is always in the plain, open space. Sherlock blends with the crowd of a busy tourist street, sitting at a table of a cafe named “Britain Extravaganza.” Despite his desire to concentrate, to mouth his theories about Ronald Adair’s case, he forces himself to be... the tourist. A little trick that Moriarty taught him. But how he hates these clothes, these awful, terrible, distasteful tourist clothes. Jeans, baseball cap, tennis shoes... ah well. It’s for science. He’s got “I <3 Britain” painted all over him, which immediately loses interest of all. The foreigners think him to be one of them, one of the masses, the natives think him to be an idiot unworthy of a glance.
And Watson won’t look twice. Although he just did. Sherlock lowers his cap, and turns another page of the “Royal Wedding” journal. He isn’t really reading that atrocious material. He is scribbling over the magazine text with a black sharpie. The point etches tense, strung, cursive letters:“Early 30s. Banker. Father owns. Affluent family. Collects clocks and watches.”
Oh it took some digging around to find those details. Prowling the crime scene as a janitor, bribing, spying, dabbing traces of Q-tips against the tables, hiring an old fellow hacker under a pseudonym of yet another hacker to get through Adair’s ridiculous security and discover his love for children. Not that he cared. “Unmarried. Rents. Party. Present girlfriend.” Who else but Watson to go to her, to talk to her? Oh of course –him- but he is /dead/. How inconvenient it is to be dead.
Sherlock’s nose wrinkles at the thought, and when he looks up he watches Watson walk out of the bookstore. Although his fingers tighten in anticipation, he doesn’t act. He continues sitting, watching his former assistant hold out his arm for a taxi.
***
Another weekly trip to the psychologist. Watson drags a hand through his hair, heaves a tired sigh, gathers himself from the chair in his apartment on Baker Street, and calls Mrs. Hudson goodbye. “Be safe dear. I’ll be visiting my daughter today so don’t expect any tea in the evening!” She calls back. He doesn’t hear. He wears a beige woven sweater, a pair of blue slacks, brown boots, and a short, light jacket. His leg aches. He grits his teeth and focuses on anger. Calming, cooling anger. And then, he is in control again. His hand raises impatiently as he fetches a taxi and climbs inside. The windows are so tinted he almost thought it was Mycroft. He’d welcome Moriarty himself if that was the case. Or the Study in Pink killer.
Watson mouths the address, adds a polite please, and sits back, staring out of the window. It’s starting to trickle. Rainy. The car starts. In front of him, the driver holds up an envelope. Watson raises a brow, asks “Is that for me?” But gets no answer. He rolls his eyes. “Look why don’t you just have Mycroft phone me like a normal person?” He waits, and the envelope is still held out to him. The doctor’s hand stretches irritably and he snatches the thing, opens it, and reads.
“Keep yourself distant. Divorce yourself from emotion.” He stops reading. Freezes. Changes. Yet remains the same. Sherlock’s words, spoken to him that unpleasant evening when the detective doubted himself after the HOUND experiment, come flashing and echoing in his head. He lifts his eyes, and continues reading. “I’m alive, but must remain dead. For your own well being.”
The letters end. Watson stares at the parchment. His eyes raise slowly to the driver. Despite the statue-like tension in his body, he utters the words. “Stop the car.”
“No.” Comes an all-too-familiar voice. Sherlock drives, and he drives to the psych’s office. “I need your help on this case.”
The sound of paper crushing and crumpling comes from behind. Watson holds it in a fist. He reaches for the door, but a click of a finger from the driver engages the locks. “Let me out. Now.”
“I know you must be angry. It’s a natural emotion to feel in your situation. Now listen. I’m not sure if the assassins are still around. The Russians left a while ago, but I must be completely sure.”
“Let me out, or I will make a scene.”
Sherlock fixes the rearview mirror on Watson’s eyes. He looks withdrawn into a safe cocoon made of steel and iron. The kind of shield he put up in Afghanistan. Only this is different. “If you want to punch me I would not be too happy, but would oblige for your sake, however now isn’t the time.”
Silence.
Sherlock drives. Although he looks outwardly patient, inside, a storm is brewing. Emotions? What is this? “Well?” He asks with a hint of irritability. There comes no response. Watson gazes out the window while his taxi driver takes him all the way to the psychiatrist’s.
When he parks, Sherlock drapes an arm over the back seat to gaze back at his assistant. Former assistant. There is withdrawal there, detachment, and it doesn’t make sense.
The veteran gives Sherlock a brief gaze, cold and simple, holds out a twenty pound bill, and waits. A gentle pressure of Sherlock’s finger frees the doors, and Watson gets out. Without looking back, he goes into the office. And sits. And listens. And nods.
***
“What was that?!” The detective erupts in the audience of his empty apartment. He throws up his hands, kicks off his shoes, tears off his jacket, and flings himself into the hammock. It drapes along his body while the man fusses over his cigarettes in his pockets. Finding a new pack, he slides one between his lips and ignites the lighter a little too harshly.
But then, he inhales. Nicotine, sweet, calming nicotine. It rushes through his brain, fast enough that Sherlock can close his eyes and savor the sensation. Out comes the stainless steel ‘snuff’ box. He pricks a small hollow bullet shell from it and holds it up to his nostril, and inhales. Another breath follows, this one sharp, into the other hole. He washes down the rush with a long drag and breathes out dragon-coils of smoke.
“He is just acting up over being left in the dark. With his intuitive ability it was the best choice for him, and the best choice for me. He’d have given it away, unknowingly, in body language.” Sherlock breathes the words. They come like a fast wave of thought, uttered to no one, for no one.
It’s not Watson that’s particularly bothering him. It’s the fact that he is somehow unsettled by a clearly predictable reaction. Sherlock sniffs, closes one nostril with a slender finger, and inhales the remainder of the white powder. He takes another thoughtful drag, and picks up his Royal Wedding journal, eyeing his scribbles. “It wasn’t the girlfriend. How is the killer related to Adair? And if he isn’t? It’s been too long. Moriarty is dead.” But it’s too interesting to pass up, too interesting to act on the possibility of a trap. After all, he almost took the taxi driver’s pill, just to prove he was right. Only Watson ruined it. Some part of him let go of that unknown truth, while the other still thirsted.
Of course, he still has the pill. He wouldn’t just let it go. Sherlock kept it, for the opportune moment, until surety claims him completely, to eat it himself, or to give it to another. The poison pill. It was only too easy to swap the evidence.
***
When Watson returns home, he isn’t surprised to see Sherlock at the desk. The curtains are drawn, they are always drawn shut when Watson leaves. Mrs. Hudson opens them, but she isn’t home. Sherlock looks up from the newspaper. This time, a real one, discussing the progress, or the lack of it, on the Ronald Adair case. “They are contemplating calling it a suicide now.” He says with a feigned note of amusement. Watson doesn’t budge. He gazes at Sherlock as if he were an inanimate object.
“And how long do you propose to use the juvenile method of silent treatment? It works quite well on children. What do you want me to say? Would you rather be dead? Should I not have come, eventually?” Silence. “What?” Sherlock snaps the newspaper with a crackle and sits up straight. How he got here is a miracle, unseen. An orchestrated, carefully thought-out miracle. Getting out will be the difficult part.
Watson goes to make tea, but notices a cup is waiting for him. Hot, with sugar, freshly steeped. A dash of milk. He sits down in his chair, picks it up, and takes a small sip, his eyes still fixed on the detective. “I’m not mad, Sherlock.” He speaks at last.
“Of course you are. That vein in your left hand shows through more when your temperature rises. I’ve seen it before, on several occasions, the latest when we ran from Lestrade.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Use our memories to get me back. I’m done. It’s not because you left me.” He takes another sip and sets the cup down on a cherry oak table. The vet leans back, presses his spine into the cushion, relaxes his neck, and takes a soft, calming breath. “It worked before. I thought we had trust in each other. This isn’t trust, Sherlock. It’s use. Plain and simple use. I don’t want a friend only when its convenient to be friends.”
Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but Watson raises his hand, commanding an odd silence. The two gaze at each other. It’s almost as if the detective holds a hint of wonderment in those calculating eyes of his. Astonishment? No, surely not. Doubt? Its just his way to get to Watson, it must be.
“I understand the danger. I became your roommate because of it, remember? Now you’ve snapped at me before. You’ve had your moments. But I still felt there was a mutual investment. You left me behind. Temporarily, yes, but without a single clue of the truth. Sherlock, you couldn’t trust me with the truth, so why should you trust me now? Since I saw you today, I thought about this long and hard. You can’t trust people, the way you are. I know you tried, you really have, with me. But there is no point beating a dead horse. You don’t need a psychologist. You know everything. And if you don't, you can figure out anything. You don’t need /me/. I’m just your stage light, I’m the guy who makes the curtains go up, but you’ve got it all yourself. I’m glad you are alive, I really am. But we can’t continue like we used to, not anymore.”
Sherlock’s forearms recline at the edge of the table. His wrists are relaxed, long fingers slightly bent, unmoving. His blue eyes study Watson, watch him, pry him, but he can’t absorb any doubt. Is that really it for them? His gaze grows unfocused as he starts slipping into the cavern of his mind, a cave now, not a palace, throwing twisted shadows of reality into his brain.
“Ah.” He replies, ever-not-Sherlocky. His fingers curl, nails drag and fumble against the newspaper, and his eyes slip, move down over it, the scribbles of Adair’s case.
Watson downs his cup in three easy gulps. He glances down at his hand. And then to Sherlock. Sluggishly, his mouth twists and his brows come together. “You... you didn’t really...?”
“I thought you’d say that.” Sherlock interrupts the other, inclining his chin onto his carefully folded hands. There is the elegance back, the confidence, the shadow of a smile.
“You drugged me?” The other stumbles to stand, drops the cup, thought it doesn’t break but simply clatters against the wooden table. Watson’s hand comes up against the wall to support his swaying, unsteady body. Sherlock’s pale face grows more and more blurry. It’s closer now. His first itches to punch it, yet he too must resist. Not that he could, not under this concoction.
“This doesn’t make sens... why would you..? What you think I’ll forgive you in the morning..?”
“Yes.”
“You bloody... bastard...”
Fading now, his limbs and legs grow so heavy that he starts to sink. Even the floor feels soft, except it isn’t the floor. It’s Sherlock’s hands, draping, clasping a secure hold around the other, laying him back into some cushioned warm seat... warm, is that from him? The pale face lingers close. It’s not sharp, not defined; it’s cloudy just like when he saw him die. Watson’s palm reaches out and paws Sherlock’s face. Smack. It wasn’t meant as a hit but it comes down quite clumsy, fingers sprawled over chin and lips, index laying atop the nostril. “Is this real?” He mouths in the haze of the drug. He tries to squeeze. Maybe he can cut off all his oxygen, see him die all over again like before, finish it, because surely....
“It’s all a dream.” The whisper comes, low and private, but there’s flesh against Watson’s palm and he can feel the warmth behind the skin. It’s smooth. Too smooth to be real. The doctor can feel the lips that cushion his thumb, the lips that speak those muffled words. The sensation lingers like skin memorizing the vibration of vocal chords. He crashes into oblivion, feeling the gentle tickle of black curls brushing his neck.
[u]
