application to cape kore
[Player information]
Player Name: V.
Age: 23
E-mail: easypeasyeasypeasy AT gmail DOT com
Other characters played at Cape Kore: --
[Character information]
Name: Sherlock Holmes
Canon: BBC Sherlock
Canon Point: Post 2x03 - The Reichenbach Fall
Age: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh let's go with 34.
Appearance: Gosh I'm really not very good at writing these hummmmm. Sherlock is about 6' in height, dark hair and pale grey eyes, fond of expensive, tailored clothing. And that damn coat.
Inventory: Given what happened in 2x03 I'ma have to pull some stuff out of my ass here, but I assume he has his usual investigate-y kit (lockpicks, collapsible magnifying lens, perhaps a stray latex glove in a pocket somewhere) and not much else. Possibly he would've procured himself a gun? Up to you dudes, I don't know, nor do I particularly care.
Abilities: Sherlock Holmes solves mysteries, and he's damned good at what he does. His powers of observation and reasoning are impressive, and his knowledge, though not vast in scope, is incredibly detailed where it matters. He absorbs information and processes it with unusual rapidity, which allows him to discern a number of things from the tiniest of details. He can read people with unusual ease, and others are often surprised and unnerved by the seemingly impossible things he can deduce about them based on the tiniest details.
His knowledge is, as aforementioned, very specific. Only those things which he sees as being immediately useful or useful to his work in the long term are stored in his memory. As such, while his knowledge of such subjects as chemistry, anatomy, and forensic pathology is incredibly detailed, there are also areas in which he is astoundingly ignorant. Anything that cannot be related to his work is systematically ignored and often derided.
Sherlock is also astoundingly manipulative and capable of shifting between a number of personalities at the drop of a hat. He's a very good actor, capable even of crying on command, and he has no qualms about using these abilities to get what he wants.
Physically he's not overly strong, though he's certainly more capable in a fight than he looks. His career often takes him dangerous places, and he's learned how to fight around his natural disadvantages. He can be quite quick if the need arises. He's also quite resilient to hardship, both physically and psychologically, and often goes days without food or sleep when he's on cases.
He can also play a mean violin when he isn't wringing awful screeches out of it, if that counts.
History: Brief episode summaries here.
Personality: Sherlock Holmes is not an easy man to deal with. Even at the best of times he's often arrogant and cold, intentionally distant from other humans. In the show's canon he describes himself as a high-functioning sociopath, but a number of actions he performs seem to contradict that statement. Regardless, it's a useful diagnosis and one which people are more than ready to believe given his behaviour. He can, at times, even be cruel, though often this is unintentional. He's capable of reading people very well, but he doesn't tend to understand them.
Under the cold, distant exterior, however, is a modicum of insecurity. Sherlock's relationship with John Watson, the only person he lets close enough to be referred to as a friend, shows his desire for approval and external affirmation. "Genius," he says, "needs an audience," and John is his. Later events prove, however, that Sherlock wants more than an audience - that John genuinely means something to him, that he not only accepts the doctor's company but approves of it, and finds him valuable. This belies an emotional depth that Sherlock generally tries very hard to keep hidden. It calls the diagnosis of sociopath very much into question.
That having been said, however, he's not a man who harbours hidden respect and care for everyone. His affection for John is the exception, not the rule. He's still perfectly capable of being ruthless and manipulative, and without John present to act as his conscience he has no qualms about hurting people, physically or emotionally, to get what he wants. He's also distinctly neuroatypical, presenting several symptoms where are reminiscent of various forms of autism - though whether or not he is truly autistic in anything but the most pared-down, theoretical definition is questionable. It is, nonetheless, a condition which impairs as much as it aids - Sherlock's ability to understand and therefore sympathize with other people in appropriate ways is limited, and this does get him into trouble on occasion, either because he fails to account for a behaviour informed by any of a set of emotions he refers to collectively as 'sentiment', or because it leads him to engage in socially-inappropriate behaviours himself.
Nonetheless he does feel, and it seems that he feels quite exquisitely, in extremes, though his reactions aren't always considered appropriate to the situation. He wavers between mania and depression, experiences bouts of genuine joy and, apparently, intense affection, is subject to obsessive fascinations and singleminded focus on a person and/or problem of particular interest. Similarly it seems that he can be hurt by the opinions and comments of others, when well-directed, however aloof he pretends to be. There aren't many sore points, but those that do exist cause him extreme discomfort and stimulation of them makes him snappish and sullen. His friendship with John, furthermore, appears to be the thing of most value in his life after his work (though the latter assertion is arguable given Sherlock's abandonment of his work and, indeed, his entire life for John's sake at the end of series 2).
[Samples]
First Person: I have noticed a disturbing number of you seem to be under the mistaken impression that the theft of your no doubt carefully- and lovingly-prepared meals from any of a wide set of what are, may I remind you, essentially communally-shared refrigerators constitutes a crime worthy not only of an in-depth investigation but of my time and attention.
They are not.
From this day forward the next person who consults me regarding this or any of a frighteningly wide set of utterly frivolous complaints will be systematically ignored, except perhaps under the condition that they provide me with some form of incontrovertible proof that their lives are, in fact, in danger.
Kenzi, I am, in fact, speaking primarily to you and I don't mind admitting so publicly. There are quite a few things about you I'd not mind admitting publicly, which you should also keep in mind for the next time you get it in your head to call me down to make certain you've cut your fringe straight.
-SH
Third Person: There are times, awful times, in which the entire world condenses itself into nothing more than a stretch of days, a timespan which Sherlock wishes could be blissfully indeterminate but never is, not without the needle. So a stretch of days passing in achingly, infuriatingly precise intervals, then, ticking by in moments marked by stimuli sundry and useless, deductions not nonsensical, not generally, but simply inane, information only worth deleting. Never anything that means something, never anything which stands out from size eight shoes and the scuff marks on the floor of the flat from where its previous occupants moved the furniture around (sofa, something big and boxy and ugly, rug was there, two chairs too close to the scorch marks near the fireplace - sudden impression of the scent of smoke, sense-memory, not nostalgic, simply there, and that's the problem).
It all becomes a blur eventually, white noise, intolerable, too much, like quantum ooze, everything and nothing all at once. Sherlock hates it.
That's what it's like, days with no case, nothing to hone his consciousness down into a singularity, something which finally has mass again, something which is, in fact, supermassive, sucking up all those stray thoughts and observations and meaningless inputs and hiding them behind the event horizon of the case, the puzzle, the only thing in all the world that matters because it's the only thing that keeps the static - spectrogram fuzz like a smear of sonic ink, wild spectral points and dips like hypodermic tips - at bay.
Coming out of the end of a fit of boredom is like adjusting the focus of a camera lens. Everything was there before, all the information was there, it simply wasn't processed properly, the scope wasn't shifted, the depth improper, everything washed and imprecise, the wrong colour, too much. And then suddenly it isn't. Suddenly the detail is relevant, makes sense, suddenly there's vibrancy and everything comes back. The flat comes back. John comes back. London comes back.
The precipitating events are always remembered. Sherlock keeps them for metaphorical rainy days (not literal ones, no, actual rain is halfway glorious when he can see it and hear it and feel it so he doesn't quite understand that turn of phrase but is more than capable of using it all the same). He holds on to them as though they might help, as though the mere remembrance of such a moment might inspire one. It almost never works, but for all that Sherlock tries to make of himself a rational creature, he's not always entirely a practical one.
This one, though, this one's going to be worth remembering regardless, even if it comes to naught, even if the puzzle ends up being mundane and pointless in the end. It'll be worth it because right now, at least, it's novel. Sherlock is used to being consulted, it's how he gets his work, but he can't recall an instance in which he was outright consulted by the murderer he's supposed to catch.
He doesn't think he's ever encountered anyone who has the flair to do it by sending him a severed hand by post, either, yet here he is, perched at the edge of his sofa like a strange animal, crouched on bare feet precariously on the edge and peering down into a package on the coffee table (neatly covering up the discoloured splash mark he managed to make on it a few days before in an unfortunate mishap involving the undue application of heat to a beaker of aqua regia) at what was once a hand. Sherlock supposes it still is, but it's a well-disguised hand, neatly flayed (taxidermist's knife most likely, very sharp blade, well-maintained, good hands, steady hands, surgeon's hands, like John's but crueler) and then not so neatly savaged. By the look of it most of the bones are broken. Judging by the smell it's been several days since it was severed, despite the very recent postmark. Not a likely lead, that; or at least he'd like to think whoever sent this is clever enough not to have used a post office near to his place of residence.
Then again, who ever knew? It hardly matters at the moment. The first thing to do is to wait for John to get home, to demonstrate that there are far worse things to have on their coffee table than a bit of highly concentrated, overheated acid, and then... then they can start.
Just to be safe, though, just to avoid such unsavoury and irritating eventualities as a date or a pub night or some other minor distraction, he sends a text.
Criminals becoming more considerate. Received hand in morning post. Up for a date?
SH
Anything Else?
:B