(Untitled)
WHO: The Dreamers; Inception crew + Arthur
WHERE: The Dreaming
WHEN: Thursday the 3rd and ongoing for a few days, until Arthur wakes up.
WARNINGS: Please warn in thread subjects!
SUMMARY: Arthur's powers go out of control, and the innocent (?) cityzens are affected.
FORMAT: As you like it! Please label your threads if they're open for other ( Read more... )
WHERE: The Dreaming
WHEN: Thursday the 3rd and ongoing for a few days, until Arthur wakes up.
WARNINGS: Please warn in thread subjects!
SUMMARY: Arthur's powers go out of control, and the innocent (?) cityzens are affected.
FORMAT: As you like it! Please label your threads if they're open for other ( Read more... )
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John, however.
John - who even a day after knowing him feels like some sort of piece of himself - has tensed ridiculously, eyes flaring at Arthur and drawing his British Army L9A1, ready to defend Sherlock at a second's notice. The cane is gone, and the hardened soldier has replaced it.]
[Sherlock's voice, however, is as cool as frosted glass.]
There's no need for dramatics.
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Bang: the projection of John is down and the gun is leveled at Sherlock. In this arena, Arthur has a quick trigger finger and an even faster reaction time.]
You're right. Put your gun down.
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Almost instantly after John drops - a split second after Arthur levels the threat - Sherlock lodges a bullet in Arthur's knee.
He raises the gun to the man's face, his body rock still but his eyes blazing fire.
He doesn't dare to look at John.]
That was a very bad idea.
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Single.
Time.
The problem is that Arthur's mind is trained for this: the dream doesn't collapse, doesn't waver, won't waver, not until he's dead. But there's a shimmer, even as Arthur yells and falls, rolling back, his gun still pointed at Sherlock]
He came in through the vent!
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[Sherlock is stepping closer to him, his hands deadly steady even as the anger radiated from every pore of his poised body. The anger is so intense that it's causing the dream to mutate - the place is no longer a specific place but something dark and writhing.
The Police sirens have started, and they're getting closer.]
But here's a thought. You were small enough to climb out of that vent. And you were the only one to run from the crime scene, and YOU -
[He's standing above Arthur now, and he won't look at John he won't he won't]
YOU have just made the worst mistake of your life.
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I can't be sedated I'll die and wake up.
[Except he might be sedated, that's why he can't risk dying, not if it makes him fall]
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Suddenly everything around them is brought into distinct sharpness, as if Sherlock is checking everything, but now nothing is right. Now everything is shifting rolling blackness and that can't be right because it simply doesn't exist and the man wants to wake up---
The gun lowers, a mere fraction.]
... dreaming. Of course.
[Then he focuses on Arthur again and his suit and - - the gun raises again.]
What are you.
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John's body is gone.
With a frown and a narrowing of his eyes, Sherlock slips sideways.]
[[ooc: and now sherlock is coming to troll everyone's dreams.]]
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Tom pauses not far from the scene, blending into the background well but not quite well enough--his clothes are too old fashioned. He wouldn't usually care about something like this, but the amount of detail has caught his interest, not to mention the images (some sort of mind magic? completely inefficient if that was the case).
The smart thing to do was leave, really; police generally didn't take kindly to civilians interrupting an investigation. But instead, Tom took a few more steps to get a better look, his shoes audibly scuffing against the pavement.]
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Come on, nothing to see here. Move along.
[But then Sherlock looks up and there's something different because he can't immediately place the boy's clothes. The images around him flicker as he looks at the boy and finally fade out. Instead, details start jumping out around Tom, becoming bright and clear.]
Wait. [To Lestrade, of course. Sherlock stands, eyes narrowing, and crosses the pool of blood without disturbing it.
Lestrade shrugs, and steps away.]
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He shifts casually, hands resting in the pockets of his coat, one loosely gripping his wand. He looks for all the world like he just stepped out of the 1940s and his appearance is immaculate; his clothes are well taken care of and there are only a couple scuffs on his shoes.
And the polite look on his face is well practised, almost perfect.] I'm sorry. I shouldn't have stopped. I didn't mean to interrupt.
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The details around Tom are bright and clear - the exact type of stitching in the shoes and around the pockets, the type of fabric and the exact colour dye...
A small counter appears beside Sherlock's head, with the year 2010, until it starts working backwards. It ends at 1940s with a '?' beside it. The words almost immediately fade after they appear.
Sherlock was right to be curious.]
It's only natural for an intelligent young man to be interested. [His low baritone voice was charming.]
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Sherlock gets a very mechanical smile for the compliment--he does hear it very often, and while he likes to hear it, any regular person would grow tired of it after a time.]
I think many people would be. [His gaze flicks briefly back at the dead woman.] Do you know what happened?
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Images of six other murders float up around him like ghostly reflections - each different but then there are patterns, highlighted and glowing - that follow each of them.]
Of course.
[A small smirk. He isn't the world's greatest detective for nothing.]
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