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@casexreopened-blog
The great Hallpen – with another new Sherlock Holmes drawing!
“How’s He Doing?” speculates that this is Holmes during the Great Hiatus (which, let’s face it, we’re ALL in the midst of right now, waiting for “Sherlock Holmes 3″…), wondering about how Watson is doing.
Still wearing the scarf…
(And she always gets RDJ’s eyelashes just right…)
“I know who I am.”
rebooted est. 2016 rules // ask // about
;; outofcases
So I finished all my drafts.
I had two. I really need more threads
In other news; I have been playing a Sherlock Holmes game on facebook and it has inspired a thread/verse I wish to do and I am ashamed.
Like for a starter, IM to plot.
Sherlock Holmes’ acrobatics -2009
Wraith watched him as he turned about; seemingly aimless— or at the very least, focused on some minute detail that remained invisible to her. She was dressed rather plainly; adorned in a shortened, aproned dress with dull trousers beneath it, stained from her work both here and the garden, her hair pulled up into a twisted bun with a few misplaced curls.
“If it were a medical emergency,” she retorted, “You wouldn’t be ambling about.”
Though he did seem to be lagging, carrying himself with a shortened stride reflective of a painful injury, she locked the door behind him— a compulsory gesture at this point, and tapped his shoulder, “This way, I don’t typically work in corridors.”
She lead him further into the offices, her main office was the same cluttered, simplistic style that seemed to suit her, a few scattered references, handwritten notes and medicinal journals, along with a few other items of little importance.
Hᴇ opened his mouth to dispute her claim-- but found himself closing it again, hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of his trousers and shifting his weight from one foot to another. Truly, there was something disarming about this woman;
( she doesn’t carry herself like a woman of the london underground--- more maternal; suggesting a more rigid upbringing. )
“Thank you, Miss Jones--- or is doctor preferred?” Holmes inquired over his shoulder as he made his way into what he deduced was not her primary office for care. As the clutter was no atmosphere for any kind of major surgery--- the layer of dust, he observed upon passing the mantel, and the severe lack of medical equipment.
With an uncomfortable grunt; he took a seat on the olive green couch on the end of the room, unbuttoning his shirt and shedding it down his shoulders with an small hum, “I can’t help but note your arm--- it’s very well crafted.”
“I am the fisherman, you are the trout.” →inspired by: aliceinwonderlnd
@glorifiied
Answering the door always came with some small amount of trepidation; while she had yet to be approached by the police, there were a number of unsavory people that came through her entrance way. Wraith was not the type to bare them any scorn, but there were those among them that thought raising the young physician by her throat constituted polite conversation.
Every occupation has it’s dangers, she supposed, rubbing the wrist of her false arm in thought before unlatching and opening the door. When she saw who it was her eyes widened slightly, and she had to fight the gutteral urge to allow the door to close on him once more.
An urge that fell entirely silent when he revealed to her the mark on his chest, stern brown eyes capturing the detective’s, “You shouldn’t be prancing around in the cold!” she said, “Get in, get in now, god, before someone sees you.”
Hᴏʟᴍᴇs muttered a quiet expression of his gratitude as he passed her, deft fingers buttoning his shirt again in an attempt to shield the wound. The floorboards creaked under his weight and he fluttered his eyes shut, pausing, and pressing down with greater force.
“You really should get that fixed,” he remarked, glancing up at the walls,
( no portraits or personal items of any kind: wear on the wallpaper suggests ‘59 or ‘58. chandelier, relatively new, minimal dust collected upon it and far out of her way to clean--- a gift, perhaps. )
He turned back to her, brows raised as he fidgeted his hands, “Well, Miss Jones, as you saw; I am in dire need of your assistance--- you’re standard commission, I presume? Or is their an increased rate for medical emergencies?”
Toby took the paper and started writing. “There was the professor… the two other surgeons were Germans. One of them was List and the other was Scheele. Scheele’s name was Wilhelm but I never caught List’s. The nurse didn’t speak English. I think she was Dutch. They all just called her Lotte but I’m not sure what her surname was.” He felt miserably useless as he wrote these things down. "And there was a photographer who brought them some pictures of you. He said he used to work for the Times but they let him go - he seemed to think it was for no reason. His name was Winston.”
Hᴏʟᴍᴇs clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he listened to Tobias account, in the best detail he was ca pable, the names and backgrounds of those involved.
( you would think that one might know more of those who operated on them. )
It was a start; and more than Lestrade could offer on several cases during the detective’s time with Scotland Yard, “Charlotte, Lotte is the diminutive form,” he said after a moment. Shifting in his seat impatiently and leaning over to watch Toby write.
“And Watson wondered why I was always so adverse to having my picture taken--- the Times is as good a place to begin as any.”
;;outofcases
I am a twit, and I hope that my followers can endeavor to forgive me and my constant slew of absences. Everything I have drafted will be kept-- but several blogs and threads have either moved or gone entirely inactive, with exception to my wife @glorifiied everything in such categories will be dropped.
No use in expending energy on a reply no one is waiting for anymore.
In a related note, I have gained a multitude of followers since my last period of activity; if those or anyone else (regardless of whether we have a thread or not) would like to plot something feel free to shoot me a message.
same.gif
When the carriage pulled up in front of Toby, he barely stopped himself from running into it - his first thought was this was it, they’d caught up with him. Whoever was inside would have a pistol or a knife and nobody would ever know what had become of Henry Strong’s bastard son.
Then the door opened, and it was Holmes. As unnerving as Toby found the man, he couldn’t think of anybody he’d have been more relieved to see. Without a word he scrambled inside and sat down to catch his breath, shutting his door on the trail of people wondering what on earth the young man had been running from.
“I made it!” he said, scarcely able to believe it.
Holmes sat back as Toby climbed in beside him, lighting his pipe and taking a lingering breath around it. His war with Moriarty had already garnered significant casualties, he was unwilling to allow Tobias to be among them, and while in some ways his-- disfigurement, marked him as a casualty, the boy seemed very interested, at least, in continuing to live his life.
An admirable hope, really, however foolish.
“Write me up a list everyone involved in your--- transformation,” Holmes ordered, passing Toby a scrap torn off of the newspaper he was holding, Toby had to have some relevant information regarding his own safety, though if nothing working with the local police had greatly diminished the detective’s expectations.
TO SPREAD POSITIVITY.
;; I challenge all of you to send me URLs! Send me URLs of your Tumblr crushes, your best friends, strangers you like to see on your dash. Send me any URL you want, and I’ll talk about the things I like about them and their blog. You can do this on or off anon, it makes no difference, just send me URLs you want me to praise. just put ‘positivity’ in the beginning of the ask and I’ll know what to do.
“Bad people do bad things because they can.”
Semi-Selective, independent ritchieverse Sherlock Holmes
Multiship, Crossover, AU and OC friendly.
Flexible writing style, 3+ years roleplaying experience
Graphic Credit (x)
Ask Rules About Verses
Toby’s heart began hammering against his ribs. “Run where?” he asked, but then for once common sense got through to him and he realized that as long as he was asking questions, he was not running.
So he ran, in the direction they were already going. He wanted to look back, but didn’t dare - it would slow him down. What would happen, he wondered, if Holmes got hurt? The detective had been very clear that he didn’t think Toby would last long without him.
What if the detective himself were part of a trap? Who was to say you could trust a man who was supposed to be dead?
Holmes’s only response to Toby’s admittedly foolish question was a shove in the forward direction, careful to get his point across without knocking the younger man flat. When he was somewhat assured that he was safe-- or at the very least safe as he could be given their current predicament-- he turned to face their assailants, flashing a wide, dangerous grin around his pipe.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” while his face may be somewhat obscured with quickly procured ash and a dusty old scarf, his voice is unmistakable, and predictably, causes the brute’s pause.
“Yer a dead man, ain’tcha?” the bravest, or rather... most foolish spoke first, and the next few moments are critical. The first sounds that meet Holmes’s ears as he closes his eyes to block out all unnecessary sensation;
( a gun cocked ready to fire, the low whistle of chain cutting through the air as it’s spun, the uncorking of a vile... )
“Rumors of my death were... greatly exaggerated.”
It’s scarcely two minutes later when a carriage cuts way of Tobias’s path, the door sliding open in front of the justifiably terrified young man, “Don’t stand there with your mouth hung open, sit, you look liable to collapse.”
“Of course, I’m sorry,” said Toby. He was just too used to thinking of himself as entirely unimportant in the great scheme of things. The idea that somebody would deliberately come after him seemed so absurd, even though it shouldn’t have - not when his life had only gotten steadily more and more preposterous since meeting the Professor. By rights nothing ought to surprise him anymore.
He wanted to look back, but he remembered Holmes’ instructions, and kept his head forward. Look natural, he told himself. Just a young man having a friendly walk with his father. “Won’t they figure out who you are when they see you?” Another possibility occurred. “Or will they assume you’re… another of me, so to speak?”
It was very clear Toby had been brought into a situation in which he was entirely ignorant to the consequences, and while that garnered some sympathy from the famous detective, he also found it incredibly annoying that anyone could be drug so deeply downward and not realize himself to be sinking.
“I don’t allow pictures of myself in the post,” Holmes said, large brown eyes scanning the environment, developing a plan as they walked, “In all likelihood, they have been provided only with a photograph of yourself, whatever conclusion they draw about me will be fairly immaterial.”
( four in the party, armed. one with rope, another with a chain, two rifles and a vile of poison should all else fail... )
“Remember when I told you not to run before I gave my instruction, Tobias?” he paused for half a step, guiding Toby around a manhole cover, “Consider this an order, run.”
clonystark:
Toby was about to ask another quesiton about Holmes’ knowledge of cameras. It was something he very much enjoyed talking about and would have distracted him from his nervousness. Then the detective put an arm around him ans whispered in his ear, and Toby went stiff.
Despite the warning, his first instinct was to look… but he forced himself to turn his head forward again. “Somebody followed you here?” he asked, horrified. He had to stick with Holmes now, he knew. If he didn’t, he was a dead man for sure.
Holmes kept his arm wound firmly around Toby’s shoulders, almost uncomfortably close to his younger doppelganger. He could not provide them an opening, a double murder would likely appear far more suspicious than a heart attack of a single, young factory worker.
“Have you listened to a word I’ve spoken?” he asked, brow furrowing slightly at the allegation, before he lowered his voice once more, “As far as anyone knows, I’m dead, it’s not me that they’re targeting.” they passed an elderly couple and Holmes gave Toby’s shoulder a fond pat to appear natural, “Why do you think that I was so insistent you leave with me this afternoon?”
thecriminalprofessor
Personally, the professor liked the think that something would never come to light - or, if they did, they would be revealed after his death. That would really be the ideal solution. Moriarty had no family that he particularly cared about, and a criminal history would not undermine his mathematical achievements, meaning that there would be no reason to worry about his secondary job becoming public knowledge once he was in the grave.
“I think that you appear to believe that there is something odd about me, Mr Holmes, but I can assure that there is not, and, you may not be aware of this, but if you ignore a string of nasty incidents that had absolutely nothing to do with me during my youth, I have never been accused of a crime in my life.”
Despite the professor’s desire, Holmes could simply not allow that to happen. He wouldn’t allow Moriarty to go peacefully by, not when the causalities of his criminal enterprise could not. There had to be a system of balance, bad people could not get away with foul actions, and the prevention of this was a burden the detective would not normally thrust entirely upon himself, but Moriarty was a peculiar case, and as the professor had pointed out, no one would believe his allegations without sufficient evidence.
The one thing he did not have.
“I accused you of being a criminal, not an inept one,” Holmes pointed out, as if it were perhaps the most obvious thing he had ever said.
