nose in a book

{current location: outside of Kautzen, Austria} How do you find who you are? The same way you find anything you've lost --just look where you last had it. The Romans never saw it coming: all roads lead to London. [Independent rp blog for a modernized ACD's Victor Trevor. Important information in the links above. Please tag as 'mrtrevor'.]

[mr-trevor-blog]

[mr-trevor-blog]

run on home [deux: the belly of the beast]

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Victor clears his throat and adjusts the brim of his newspaper boy's cap, pulling it a little lower to cast over his face. The grandfather clock ticks on.

                  "How do you take your coffee, sir?"

                                         Pause. "--black, three sugars, thank you."

The man inclines his head, does just that, and leaves.Victor picks up the cup of coffee but does not drink it, lets its warmth seep through his fingers, listening to the sound of footsteps outside the door and knowing exactly from their light tread who it is.

"I see you're still just as timely," speaks a voice Victor knows too well from behind him. 

"Old habits," Victor offers, to which the voice only 'hm's and, from the rustles of cloth, removes his coat and scarf. An umbrella is propped against the wall at the corner of Victor's vision. Mycroft Holmes's eyes flick down into Victor's mug and his lip twitches. Victor hides his responding curl of the lip behind its brim, and sips. 

"Old habits indeed," Mycroft sniffs. His gaze bores into Victor for a few more minutes, and then he begins to recite --- 

      "Victor Trevor, age 32 this past November, CEO of Trevor Industries, a very lucrative mining company, primarily in gold...guilty of aiding and abetting, assault and battery, avoiding arrest, bribery, drug possession, extortion, forgery, theft, white collar crime....and murder of the first degree."

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

                    "Alphabetical order, save the last. Always had a taste for the dramatic, haven't you, Mycroft?" 

The government official looks vaguely amused and irritated - it's hard to tell which, and Victor is quite good at reading emotion, but the Holmes brothers have always been difficult. He shakes his head and takes a seat. "You know as well as I do that it's the way they would be presented in court, should anyone discover your hand in them." Mycroft laces his fingers together and regards Victor over them. "Come now, Victor. You're intelligent enough to have realized some time ago that there was a reason you were never caught. That the work of the men you hired - however admirable - couldn't entirely erase all evidence."

Tick. Tock. 

                    "You wanted Hudson's network disposed of."

Mycroft spreads his hands. "He was a major presence in the black market for over thirty years. We didn't have enough information to catch him and his associates. You did." 

Victor sets the mug down and leans forward. "I did the dirty work, you cleaned up the mess and let me mobilize. If I was careless, if I got caught, there was no proof of your hand...I would take the fall."

The look Mycroft gives him settles a cold weight in Victor's stomach, but the older man is right. He'd began to suspect some time ago, but when he'd been shot by Hudson and shot him in turn - when they were in a pool of blood one moment and then in the hospital the next, and no police came to Victor while he recovered...he'd known then. He just didn't want to admit that he'd been played this entire time, a puppet in a game. It must have showed in some degree on his expression, because Mycroft clicks his tongue.

"Come, now, Victor. You're in a position of power - you understand the necessity of making decisions for the greater good. I could have easily stopped you and sent in my agents, but I sensed that you needed this - and that if you came out on the other side, you could be of great use."

Victor presses his teeth together lightly, and brings up the name he knows Mycroft has been avoiding since he entered. He nods smally, politely, and murmurs, "I also understand why Sherlock went through so much effort to avoid you through university. And I don't regret the incident with the pig and the umbrella."  

Mycroft's eyebrow twitches. This time, Victor doesn't hide his smile. 

[tbc]

[xxkellycoolcatxx]

[audaciouspanthera]

The criminal stood in silence, gently and lightly rocking on his feet - heel to toe and back, before he gave a small bounce which was to end the habit. He seemed to do it when he felt particularly awkward in a normal situation, though it had been some time since he’d felt such a way. Then again, he was fighting the urge to wander and look over whatever book was closest. Hands like his were not meant for casual observational touches, not when it came to precious items such as books or papers, something worth money. Though, he did have much better control over the urges from his past life. It was more about the kill for him these days.

Severin cleared his throat, mind having started to wander, which may have started to show as the right corner of his lips pulled up into a half-grin. “Over twenty years I’d say,” he responded, expression changing to a slight frown as he thought on the actual numbers. Both he and his twin were now thirty-six, as far aware this particular book had been last looked when they were roughly fifteen years old. Twenty-one years, and the book had been tucked away in a box and stored and moved around since. He was sure Sebastian was no longer aware that it still existed, that his own brother had had it all this time. It was quite sad really, considering how much he had loved it.

Unable to stop himself edging closer to Victor, a curious look filled blue eyes and the smallest smile was trying to pull at the corners of his mouth. He peered over the book; there was a corner tear. No doubt caused by their father or someone else. They twins had always looked after their books - never folded a page, always used a book mark and put them away with care. “Not to worry,” he responded quickly, smile seeming to widen as he caught the other man’s smile, hand pushing through is hair. “Victor; lovely to meet you. My name is Severin.” No surname, not yet at least. If he were asked he would lie. Best not to use his true surname - he would either be recognised as the son of the deceased Augustus Moran, or well. What he was.

[mr-trevor-blog]

[restless hands. used to movement - to picking up, assessing, measuring - curious hands.]

Goodness, it had been a long time since he'd seen an unfamiliar face, for him to be enjoying such basic readings from the very surface of a person, especially when there was something just a bit off-beat about the man. He had a story, Victor could tell, and it took a great deal of self-control for Victor to not quest for answers as to what exactly he was doing all the way out here when the man was standing so close and it wouldn't be all too difficult. 

"Likewise, Severin," he tasted the name and held the smile and the other's eyes, then glanced back down at the book, not having missed the lack of an identifying last name. Two men avoiding the shadows of their fathers, was it? 

"Well, for being a bit on in years," Victor patted the book lightly and affectionately, the way he might a person, "this book's been preserved rather well. There are some basic repairs needed - a few pages that we can restore, lettering that's faded, and the binding could be reworked..." His fingertips grazed the page before him. "But it shouldn't take too long. In fact, you could stay and watch, if you'd like." 

[doehearted-blog1]

The Misty Stars

[doehearted-blog1]

"My nylon patience is perhaps the propulsion we need—" she retorts with a grumble. Sherlock scoffs from where she stands "Always the golden poet…" she mumbles over the lips of her water bottle before finishing it off. Of course the tone reaches her, for while they are the worse of fire and ice, he does always calm her right before she sparks up into a wildfire… before he has to turn to fire to help burn herself out.

It’s with his calming words working as a salve on her mind does Sherlock sets the plastic bottle down and strides over with heavy limbs to rest beside him. She  rests her arms upon the railing, her chin rested atop of them, watching the dunes. “I know… it’s fragile…” she then whispers, letting herself watch the scenery.

Then after a long while of watching with curious eyes and parted lips does she speak. “I suppose it’s pretty…” she continues watching and listening to the school children shout and tease each other below their balcony. While she doesn’t become uninterested, she does unravel her resting position and procures the rolled tobacco back from the blond. She takes a long drag with the slightest corkscrew smile resting on her chapped lips. Looking up at him, she shakes her head some. “I will never understand how you start your mornings speaking like a poet laureate with out coffee or a cuppa” she admits slowly, chuckling with a shake of her head.

[mr-trevor-blog]

"Fragile indeed," he murmurs, eyes drifting over to her, to the dark curls stirred free by the dry breeze that blows through once more. He looks away before she notices, crosses his arms lightly and rests his head against the wood and returns to idly observing the goings-on below the balcony, smiling a little when one of the littlest children trips and the rest run to pick her up. It's easy when you're young. There's no questioning of playmates, no distrust, only further game.

Victor breathes a laugh and reaches out to brush back her hair without thinking, a habit restored from their college years.

"I do no such thing. But not everyone needs a near ton's worth of caffeine to function at a decent hour," he teases lightly, and then to the buzz of one of the phones on the desk, pushes off the doorframe and brushes past Sherlock as he re-enters the room to pick up the cell.

"Ah." Victor's eyebrows raise as he reads the text. "Seems like we've got less time than we think after all. Our man's due to leave the country tomorrow. Looks like we'll need another prospective buyer to raise the stakes enough that he'll stay." He looks up at the detective, and twists a corner up into an almost mischievous smile.

"Think you're up for another identity?"  

[ailsaosborne-deactivated2014112]

[mr-trevor-blog]

run on home [un: snowflakes]

"No two snowflakes look alike". It's an often quoted saying, meant to inspire about the beautiful craftmanship of nature, to reflect the magical distinction among people.

People that repeat this phrase have clearly never been to Austria.

Living out here surrounded by them morning, afternoon, night, day after day, week after week, month after month, one begins to think there's no way that could be true. Victor has seen in these few months what feels like over billions of snowflakes, over hundreds of snowfalls. 

And yet despite this all - the repetitiveness of the landscape and the town, where people move about doing exactly what they had the day before and offering the same greetings, like clockwork, Victor can still appreciate it on his walk to the bookshop, which opens every day without fail even though in his time here it must have received a grand total of twenty visitors. After all, he might have blended in here effortlessly, but he doesn't belong. 

It isn't home. 

His leg is stronger now. He can run in the mornings - well, first he can shovel out a path in the thick, heavy snow, then he can run - but he can run for an hour without stopping. He's winded by the end and his eardrums burn like hellfire and he's not as fast as he could be, but going from a comatose state tucked away in a hospital to running was a prospect he'd given up on.

He breathes better, too. His inhaler now lies in the bottom of his drawer, used only rarely. The scarring on his chest has now blended into his skin, just a little pinker and shinier than the rest. All of the other scars are almost gone.

It's as if, he thinks, standing in front of the mirror and brushing his fingers above his heart where the bullet hit, his body is wrapping up the loose ends for him, so he can take hold of them himself. 

After all, Victor had always known that there was only one place that so captured his emotion, for better or for worst - only one place he could go back to, after all this time, that would still have a place for him. 

Victor picks up his phone a few days after the New Year and flicks through the texts he's been ignoring, to one he'd ignored months ago, and sits on the edge of his bed, gazing at it for some time.

Then, he begins to type out - 

[text to; (020)XXXX-XXXX]  I'd like to take you up on that offer.

The response comes later that afternoon, while he's reshelving a few books.

[text from; (020)XXXX-XXXX] How soon can you be in London?

Victor texts back immediately - "soon" - and tucks away the last of his books. A few minutes later, he's resigned from his position in the bookshop, said goodbye to the owner, who merely grunts and claps him on the back in what may have been the most response he's ever given to anything Victor says, and Victor ghosts his fingers over the shelves that he's going to miss most about this town before opening the door and feeling a rush of cold wind and the sting of snow on his cheeks.

His heart is pounding for what seems like the first time since he's settled into this town, and the snowflakes, when he looks up at the sky, don't resemble one another at all.

[crookedexpectations]

[againbeholdthestars-deactivated]

[mr-trevor-blog]

kingdom large enough

[kingintheyard-blog]

Greg watched the interaction between man and beast with the same carefree air draped about him. Ungloved hands slipped into his pockets and he tried to ignore the sudden chill that seeped into his very chest; the woes of a warm room to the chill outside. 

Duke rolled on the ground and bared a soft underbelly, tail beating the snow around him in little flurries that dusted the pair. Greg’s eyes rolled as he huffed a quiet chuckle. “I don’t know whose worse.” He berated with kindness.

As Victor rose and spoke, Greg smiled sadly, clapping a sturdy hand onto a noticeably thinner shoulder. Getting on in years was terrible code, one that everyone knew. She wasn’t going to be around much longer. It was a sad thought, not made any easier given how long Victor had had the girl. He gave a gentle squeeze, before quickly releasing the younger man and taking half a step to the side. “I can imagine that she’ll get life in her if Sherlock walked in.” The DI teased. “Though I wouldn’t blame her. A corpse’d get life in it to escape that lanky bastard.” Greg grinned, stepping back into the bookshop doorway to avoid a sudden breeze.

A hand groped behind to find the handle and let them back into the warm of the tiny dusty shop. Without any aim, he began scanning the shelves, curious to see what mysteries and worlds sat there. “Y’know, you suit a bookshop.” He offered suddenly, aware Victor was back within ear shot. He didn’t turn, picking up a novel to read the synopsis. “Maybe wouldn’t have picked Austria, but definitely the bookshop. Seems like a big change though from London and your old company.” Again came those gentle probes, the small testers he threw out to see if he could prompt Victor into an explanation of some kind.

While their familiarity was mainly just an acquaintance through Sherlock, Greg took a liking to the young Victor Trevor. The fact he and Sherlock were such firm and unlikely friends, the patience that he could exhibit to deal with such a man, and his careful, friendly manner, it just appealed to Greg’s own nature. He was concerned for the other man’s wellbeing, and he was worried for him.

[mr-trevor-blog]

Victor glanced into sincere dark eyes, and curled his lips in quiet acceptance of the other man's sympathy. Maybe, once, he would have denied it, changed the subject and insisted he was fine, but his feet were aching from running and he was terribly tired of it now, when everything ultimately always caught up. He followed Greg back into the shop with a gracious nod, picking up the notepad he'd abandoned and a pen beside it to start taking the day's inventory. The sun was setting; it wouldn't be long before they closed up, especially with the snowstorm on the horizon.

"Hm?" he looked up and blinked, a curious smile growing on his lips. It was the first time he'd heard that, mostly because Greg's was one of very few familiar faces he'd seen in months. "Do I?" His voice was amused as his attention turned back to his clipboard, marking off another row of books as he passed them. Greg and he moved opposite to each other, bringing them to a point of convergence somewhere in between, where Victor's eyes rose once more to observe the profile of hardy features, deep-set kind eyes and cheeks ruddy from the cold. 

"That's a good one," he provided about the book in Greg's hands, and took a step back to peer at the higher shelves, shelves even he with all his height sometimes had trouble reaching without a ladder. [Leading questions, sidelong glances, posture leaning slightly toward Victor indicating his attention.] Greg still was searching for some sort of answer. Headstrong man...not as much stubborn as firm. It made him bite back a smile. 

"Yes, I...I suppose you could say I needed a vacation as well. I didn't quite have a destination in mind. Austria just...happened." His gaze drifted back to the window over his shoulder, to the golden setting sun and the few people on the streets that always stopped to speak with one another with warm smiles of familiarity. "An old couple was kind enough to lend me a temporary living space. No, it's certainly not the company, and definitely not London...but I believe I needed that."

He shook his head and tore his eyes away to meet Greg's, his own creasing along the corners warmly as he came to stand beside him to take inventory of the shelf the inspector stood in front of. "And it doesn't hurt that I don't mind the snow. Duke and I are similar creatures, you could say. What about you? Seems rather far to wander for a holiday, yourself."

[mr-trevor-blog]

- who pays any attention to the syntax of things -

[theimpossibleeccentric]

Sherlock watched the progression of thought as it passed Victor’s face with analytic eyes.

Shock, a small flashback, fear, understanding, hesitance, indecency, and finally enjoyment. 

Sometimes it still amazed the detective that people could feel so many things, especially in such short time periods. 

Watching Victor tear the shelves apart, watching the papers and books hit the the ground and scatter, Sherlock smiled. Perhaps he’d be able to help his friend after all. Perhaps he wasn’t too damaged to do a bit of rebuilding elsewhere.

When the businessman finished he was sweating and breathing heavily. Without any pretext Sherlock directed him to a new uncovered chair and served him a glass of water, “Try not to crow too much as you watch me pick up after you. I assure you that only a very unique set of events leads to this type of thing. I won’t be around to grab things you drop forever.”

He got on his knees and began sweeping the debris into trash bags, “Do you want to donate the books and sheet music or shall we bin it all?”

[mr-trevor-blog]

He didn't resist or assume the pretense of being well like he might ordinarily, because he knew Sherlock would see right through the act and be unimpressed. Instead Victor let himself be led toward the chair and sat heavily, taking the weight off his legs gratefully. The adrenaline had numbed him to the pain but he was starting to feel it again now, and he rubbed at his thigh absent mindedly while he accepted the glass, appreciating its chill to his touch. 

Only because he'd been asked did Victor bite back a smile as he watched Sherlock push fallen papers and forgotten pieces of plastic into the rubbish bags, though he couldn't help but add, "but you are for now, and I'll be sure to exercise the right." He hid his chuckle behind the glass that he rose to his lips to sip at, his accelerated breath forming a thin fog on its surface. It wasn't as if he'd really be rude enough to toss things just to see Sherlock pick it back up...but the idea was rather amusing. 

"Ah..." Victor set the glass back down and leaned forward, sweeping his eyes over the books that did remain intact through the fall and feeling a bit of guilt start to tingle at the pits of his stomach. They had carried memories for him pressed between their pages like bitter herbs,  yes, bad memories, but it still seemed wrong for their spines to be exposed as they lay on the floor like that. "Donate them," he murmured. "That would perhaps be best." 

His eyes followed the sway of Sherlock's dark curls as he worked and added, "but not the old company files. Just..." Victor scraped his teeth over his bottom lip and let it go. "I'd like to get rid of those." He cleared his throat, changed the subject back. "I never pegged you for a philanthropic type," he curled his lip and tilted his head. "How are things at Baker Street?" The adjacent topics brought up in a row were done so on purpose, a quiet connection being drawn between them.

[mr-trevor-blog]

out of book glue;

finally got around to watching the empty hearse! posted an open starter for anyone who wants a quick reply gif chat type thing, and meanwhile starting all these replies that have piled up wahaha

i'm the worst

also, finally gonna return vic to london hahahaha yep )

[mr-trevor-blog]

ooc

I SWEAR I WILL BE ON MORE IN THE NEW YEAR AHAHHA

not today but

tomorrow

yes tomorrow)

[jimthewebspinner]

/Finally/ another Christmas is over. [Open]

[mr-trevor-blog]

Was the gala that terrible?

[brutalgeneration]

[misselizabethbennets]

[tomhiddleston-gifs]