{the secluded soiree.}
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Spencer Reid, Tony Stark.
Rating: PG-13 for now.
Time Period: Modern ---> Near Future
Location: The road outside the Castle ---> Time Room
Relative Date: On the evening of the [dance] ; sunset
Status: PM to join.
§ Montpellier, France. 1894 §.
It was the greatest of temptations, Sherlock Holmes thought to himself, to simply pluck up a pen from the desk beside him, and set the address of one John Watson upon paper, confiding to him the truth: that he was, indeed, alive and (more or less, though he doubted his good friend doctor would agree) well, and about to embark on an extraordinarily peculiar venture. The mysterious nature of the note which arrived atop the rest of the daily post to the laboratory, addressed in his own name, left Holmes convinced that there was a great deal of potential danger awaiting him. Only his brother, Mycroft, so much as knew he was alive, and though his brother was also exceedingly skilled in ciphers, Holmes knew his hand as well as his own, and knew his brother well enough to reason that he would not have betrayed Sherlock's secret by asking someone else to pen the message to conceal his handwriting.
Yet Holmes could not completely regret his inability to contact his long time friend - it would both keep Watson safe from this new danger, and keep him from being set in the compromising situation of having to maintain Holmes' secret. It was nothing new to the self-proclaimed detective to set off into a dangerous scenario without so much as leaving word to any other human being about where he was bound. Should something befall him, on his quest to rid the world of the last of Moriarty's most villainous of cronies, there would be no one to grieve for Holmes, and he rather preferred it that way. Both Watson and Mrs. Hudson had already surely passed through their period of bereavement, and he would pass from this world without a whisper.
He banished such grim thoughts from his mind, a superior smirk finding its way onto his drawn, thin features. Despite what the world at large may believe, he was not deceased yet, and he had no plans on walking into a deathtrap unprepared. He would go armed, not simply with revolver and combat skills, but with that most valuable asset in his possession: his mind.
§ Here. Now. §
The sun was just vanishing into the horizon as Sherlock Holmes appeared over the crest of the hill, twirling a cane in his right hand, his left stuffed into the pocket of his long coat. The strange, intoxicating orange and purple cast granted to the expansive green fields by the sun's setting would have drawn a second look from almost any man. The scene was idyllic: the fiery stripes of maroon clouds reflected back from the surface of a crystalline lake, and the castle that seemed to rise up from these fairy-like surroundings as if out of a dream.
Or so it would have struck any other man. Holmes spared it no such sentimental thoughts as his sharp eyes stripped the scene before him for any indication of present danger. He would have preferred to come in costume, given that he had no clear idea where he would be arriving. However, as he was personally escorted to the premises in the most marvelous mechanical contraption he had ever laid eyes on, and as the telegram that had lured him to this place had been addressed to his name, he knew there was little to be gained in attempting to conceal his identity. Someone, who was already in possession of great resources as well as impressive stores of information regarding Holmes' whereabouts and current objectives, had gone to great pains to bring him here. He did not mean to disappoint.
It was difficult not to be slightly on edge, beyond the mysterious circumstances that indicated that someone knew he was alive, and where to locate him. The contraption that had ferried him here had been driven by a gentleman from whom he could not ascertain a single word. Holmes had spent much of the trip observing the man, looking for some clue as to who's trap he was walking into. However, he had not merely been disappointed, but somewhat flummoxed, a situation that did not bode well. The driver had been too clean-cut, an indication that he was in a position that demanded the strictness of adherence to expectations on behalf of his employer. However, it had also eliminated many of the tell tale signs that might have given Holmes a more distinct impression of where they were bound. His clothing was foreign to the detective, giving him cause to doubt that they were traveling to England. He kept careful measure of the time, attempting to judge the speed of the craft, in order to arrive at some concept of distance from his location in France. However, the craft flew too high for him to keep steady track of the speed with which they passed over phone poles, and his calculations became based upon guesswork.
All in all, Holmes noted to himself, it was already shaping up to a grand mystery, even if {for with Moriarty's men involved, it may well be} it proved to be the end of all of such mysteries for Sherlock Holmes.
Rating: PG-13 for now.
Time Period: Modern ---> Near Future
Location: The road outside the Castle ---> Time Room
Relative Date: On the evening of the [dance] ; sunset
Status: PM to join.
§ Montpellier, France. 1894 §.
It was the greatest of temptations, Sherlock Holmes thought to himself, to simply pluck up a pen from the desk beside him, and set the address of one John Watson upon paper, confiding to him the truth: that he was, indeed, alive and (more or less, though he doubted his good friend doctor would agree) well, and about to embark on an extraordinarily peculiar venture. The mysterious nature of the note which arrived atop the rest of the daily post to the laboratory, addressed in his own name, left Holmes convinced that there was a great deal of potential danger awaiting him. Only his brother, Mycroft, so much as knew he was alive, and though his brother was also exceedingly skilled in ciphers, Holmes knew his hand as well as his own, and knew his brother well enough to reason that he would not have betrayed Sherlock's secret by asking someone else to pen the message to conceal his handwriting.
Yet Holmes could not completely regret his inability to contact his long time friend - it would both keep Watson safe from this new danger, and keep him from being set in the compromising situation of having to maintain Holmes' secret. It was nothing new to the self-proclaimed detective to set off into a dangerous scenario without so much as leaving word to any other human being about where he was bound. Should something befall him, on his quest to rid the world of the last of Moriarty's most villainous of cronies, there would be no one to grieve for Holmes, and he rather preferred it that way. Both Watson and Mrs. Hudson had already surely passed through their period of bereavement, and he would pass from this world without a whisper.
He banished such grim thoughts from his mind, a superior smirk finding its way onto his drawn, thin features. Despite what the world at large may believe, he was not deceased yet, and he had no plans on walking into a deathtrap unprepared. He would go armed, not simply with revolver and combat skills, but with that most valuable asset in his possession: his mind.
§ Here. Now. §
The sun was just vanishing into the horizon as Sherlock Holmes appeared over the crest of the hill, twirling a cane in his right hand, his left stuffed into the pocket of his long coat. The strange, intoxicating orange and purple cast granted to the expansive green fields by the sun's setting would have drawn a second look from almost any man. The scene was idyllic: the fiery stripes of maroon clouds reflected back from the surface of a crystalline lake, and the castle that seemed to rise up from these fairy-like surroundings as if out of a dream.
Or so it would have struck any other man. Holmes spared it no such sentimental thoughts as his sharp eyes stripped the scene before him for any indication of present danger. He would have preferred to come in costume, given that he had no clear idea where he would be arriving. However, as he was personally escorted to the premises in the most marvelous mechanical contraption he had ever laid eyes on, and as the telegram that had lured him to this place had been addressed to his name, he knew there was little to be gained in attempting to conceal his identity. Someone, who was already in possession of great resources as well as impressive stores of information regarding Holmes' whereabouts and current objectives, had gone to great pains to bring him here. He did not mean to disappoint.
It was difficult not to be slightly on edge, beyond the mysterious circumstances that indicated that someone knew he was alive, and where to locate him. The contraption that had ferried him here had been driven by a gentleman from whom he could not ascertain a single word. Holmes had spent much of the trip observing the man, looking for some clue as to who's trap he was walking into. However, he had not merely been disappointed, but somewhat flummoxed, a situation that did not bode well. The driver had been too clean-cut, an indication that he was in a position that demanded the strictness of adherence to expectations on behalf of his employer. However, it had also eliminated many of the tell tale signs that might have given Holmes a more distinct impression of where they were bound. His clothing was foreign to the detective, giving him cause to doubt that they were traveling to England. He kept careful measure of the time, attempting to judge the speed of the craft, in order to arrive at some concept of distance from his location in France. However, the craft flew too high for him to keep steady track of the speed with which they passed over phone poles, and his calculations became based upon guesswork.
All in all, Holmes noted to himself, it was already shaping up to a grand mystery, even if {for with Moriarty's men involved, it may well be} it proved to be the end of all of such mysteries for Sherlock Holmes.