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@sherllockedholmes
You’re right, but I have just about 30 years of training and experience. Think of it this way. A wannabe Scotland Yard comes on one of your cases. I’m guessing you’d treat them as a Padawan. Correct me if I’m wrong here.
What the hell is a Padawan?
TEXT MESSAGE » MYCROFT
SHERLOCK: What is this book? Explain.
That doesn’t exactly change the fact that you’ve denied their existence here. Demon blood has been running through my veins since I was a kid. Unlike most of the people in this place I already know how to control it. So essentially, that makes me one step ahead of the game.
I fail to see what that has to do with anything now. It isn’t rocket science, of which I know a lot. It’s fairly simple to figure out what to do and how to fight.
Sherlock, you didn’t even believe in angels and demons until a few weeks ago. Now you want to protect them?
Because I’m certain in my world, they don’t exist. Now, I am one. I don’t care about protecting anybody, I simply think it’s funny that you think you can do anything.
Alright, so good news for the Pocket. At least for us demons. Let’s just say if you’re an angel I found a way to take your grace.
Good luck with that, Goliath.
The Ghost of the Bar | Owen and Sherlock
Owen stayed hidden for a bit, watching as Sherlock made his way through bottle after bottle, but as time went on, he was finding it harder and harder to stay silent. When Sherlock started talking, Owen realized it was the perfect time to cease the moment and mess with the town’s local detective. Making his voice deeper, Owen spoke up - “Sherlock Holmes, it is I, God, and do not for one second think that I am ever not listening. How dare you.”
His voice boomed throughout the bar, and it took everything in him not to laugh. “It is going to take a lot more than that for someone like you to feel anything. Try the dark stuff, it’s delicious.” Then he moved to the side of the bar to get a better view of the detective, to see his reaction to ‘God’ responding to him.
Sherlock jerked and then froze as he heard a voice, American, speaking to him. His eyes roamed the bar, but he didn’t see anyone else there. He was scared, obviously, but he didn’t let that show on his face. “Of course, you’re American.” He said that because he clearly thought God had an ego. After all, he was letting them suffer in this hell -- for what, exactly?
However, he had no reason not to believe the advice. After all, if he was God, he should, in theory, know angel anatomy well enough to tell him what he should do. Obediently, almost scarily so, if Sherlock were more aware of himself in this moment, he picked up a bottle of rum, taking far more than a chug before spitting it out. “Asshole,” he muttered, wiping his mouth off before taking another sip of it, this time with more care. He swallowed it down with some difficulty before slamming the bottle back down on the bar.
blood sucker - jacklock
The heartbeat in the famous detective was quickening with every second that went by. It was like music to the immortal’s ears as he focused in on it and then the rushing of the blood that coursed through the other’s veins. Blinking curiously, Jack tilted his head and instantly exhaled a small sigh of relief when the other accepted his handshake.
When Sherlock didn’t immediately draw back and instead lingered within the handshake, Jack moved his other hand up and placed it over their closed hands and smiled serenely before letting go at the same time that Sherlock had jerked his hand away.
“We haven’t seen much of each other, it’s a shame really.”
Jack let out a small laugh when the detective gave him permission to compliment him. If anyone in the Pocket knew about manners, it was Sherlock Holmes. Which was strange to say, as nearly everyone assumed him to be rude and uncaring. Which, to be fair, the detective never actually needed a reason to care about others. Except for those from his own world.
The Captain raised a brow and descended further into the basement of the Hub, inclining his head towards his office where he proceeded to walk. “Well first I’d like to state that the pleasure is all mine,” Jack turned a coy eye onto the detective before holding his office door open for the man. “And second, I do believe we agreed to test some theories out. I am made vampire and you are an angel? Surely we can try all sorts of new and exciting things out,”
Jack gave a small pause and continued to smile. “Together.”
Sherlock hadn’t noticed that Jack had placed his other hand on top of Sherlock’s until his hand was already gone, the lack of touch feeling stark and foreign, although he knew it shouldn’t have.
He nodded in agreement when Jack called it a shame that they hadn’t seen much of each other. He didn’t really care much before, he wasn’t normally distracted by attractive people or flirtations, but now-- he did. What was that about?
He tried to think about it, but Jack had walked past him and down into the Hub, Sherlock’s eyes mysteriously and through no fault of his own trailing down to Jack’s ass before shooting back up to his face. What had he said? The pleasure was all his? Sherlock was sure that wasn’t true. He followed Jack’s invitation into the office, not sensing the potential “trap” aspect of the situation.
Theories. That fritzed Sherlock’s mind back to its regular state. What sort of things could they test, really? Except--
“Yes,” he agreed. “Most interesting, I think, is what would happen if you were to drink angel’s blood. Don’t you agree?” He tried not to think of Jack’s lips against his neck and instead tried to focus on the scientific properties of the experiment.
Watson + Sherlock || A Day In Blue
A scoff sat on John’s lips and he blinked once or twice. What a ridiculous request. The stress and confusion of his day began to wear, and the doctor grew a bit tired. He wasn’t the active person he used to be. Yet, the lifestyle was missed and chased after regularly. Denial grew thick– John wasn’t quite ready to accept the reality before him. It was too wild of a concept to grasp and believe. His toes went stiff in leather shoes.
What could lead Sherlock to believe that John wasn’t John? There really wasn’t any technology out there to fake a face so well. Especially in such detail. Well, at least, in the world they had come from. How ridiculous of an idea. The veteran attempted to swallow back his exasperation. It didn’t work all too well. “Sherlock– he cut himself off, sighing deeply.
He supposed he would have to play along. Images and memories flickered through his mind like a hand book. “Er…” He dragged off, furrowing his brow. “Ah.”
John narrowed his eyes. “The pen you frequent in the fridge. I’m not sure why it’s always in the fridge; you said something about keeping the ink fresh. Is that even a thing?”
The way John said Sherlock’s name made him question if his request was necessary. It was stern and exasperated, the way John would say his name when Sherlock wanted to do something particularly dangerous or ‘stupid’. In fact, every once in a while, it would actually work. It flashed Sherlock back, giving him an extreme sense of deja vu. They could very well have been in 221B, Sherlock experimenting with rats or medicines or whatever else struck his fancy.
But they weren’t. They were in the Pocket universe where logic didn’t rule and nothing made sense.
What John ended up coming up with, something seemingly insignificant, seemed like it would suffice. He considered it for a moment; he didn’t keep the pen in the fridge here, mostly because he didn’t do a lot of writing, nor did he care about the consistency of the ink. But was that in the books?
Loosening his stance, Sherlock took his arms off of John’s shoulders, resting them at his sides. “It’s about the consistency of the ink, making sure it writes well.” His statement was definitive, like he was choosing to believe John. For now.
He wouldn’t allow himself to believe it all the way, though. Because that would give him hope and he couldn’t afford that. Still, he really was glad to have John, real or not, here.
Mh, it seems that you are getting wiser, Sherlock.
[private]
However, you could avoid future mistakes, although the novels never mentioned a pocket world, so it isn’t so accurate. Though, I have to admit that it is very precise with some aspects of our lives, so precise that it made me think about free will. Sherlock, I think the author is capable of controlling our lives, I would have also added that it sounds crazy, but being in a pocket made me change my opinion about what craziness is. Listen, Sherlock…sure, the little details of the events that we faced weren’t exactly like the novels describe them, but the people that we had to face or befriend…You know that I don’t believe in coincidence, Sherlock, and I taught you to not believe in it either. If the author can really control our lives somehow then he could be our way out ticket. It may actually work, we are in a pocket world, after all.
[/private]
[private]
So what are you saying, exactly? That god is this... Arthur Conan Doyle character who wrote the books? How do you propose we find him?
Well, I’m the Librarian so finding a dictionary wouldn’t be impossible.
You should come here sometimes…educate yourself. Our novels can be found here.
Why would I want to read my own future?
Watson + Sherlock || A Day In Blue
The brick practically rippling behind him, John met the wall with a huff. His instincts stroke to push Sherlock away. Still, he refrained from making any advancements. He didn’t want to startle the detective who was so clearly unstable. Now that their eyes met, piercingly cool, John noticed something about his face. Younger? Not as stiff, maybe. “Sherlock,” he scoffed with bewildered smile, “What are you talking about?!”
There was clearly something wrong. Was he not lucid? At any rate, the doctor was tired, and wasn’t interested in entertaining any odd behavior. John slipped out from the detectives grip and pushed him away, just enough to be out of arms reach. Sherlock seemed to be looking at him as if he were a stranger. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. He brushed off his jacket and regained posture. “What’s wrong with you?” The doctor asked, frightened. His eyes were laced with shock.
Sherlock didn’t notice John’s human reaction to colliding with the wall, he didn’t notice any of the obvious clues that would have let him know that this was John, the very John he missed solving crimes with. His only friend. He didn’t notice until John said his name again. Sherlock, what are you talking about? He froze again, surveying John’s face once more now that he was in such close proximity. His wrinkles were more prominent now, that was certain. He looked tired, the way he sometimes looked when he would come home after a long shift at St. Bart’s that had come right after a day of gallivanting around London with Sherlock. His eyes -- they looked at him the way they always had when Sherlock did something ‘not human’ or not up to the social constructs of the day.
Maybe this really was John.
He was pushed away and he allowed himself to be, not moving to close the distance between them again. He was stunned. If this really was John, then... it appeared that life would get much better in this pocket of hell.
But he needed to be sure. The tiredness and age in John’s face pointed to the fact that John might have been affected by Sherlock’s death. He certainly sounded that way on the phone before he’d jumped. But he didn’t seem surprised to see Sherlock alive, just that he was glad to see him. Something wasn’t right.
“Prove to me you’re John,” he demanded. “Tell me something only you would know. I can’t trust you, otherwise. They might have sent a-- a cyborg or something that looks like you.”
The Ghost of the Bar | Owen and Sherlock
Owen got bored of the Hub pretty quickly. Irritating Jack was only amusing for so long. Especially since Jack had an uncanny ability to hit him every time he happened to be solid. It was definitely time for him to find somewhere else to haunt, which is how he eventually ended up at the bar.
Didn’t seem like there was a lot of people finding the need to drink with their new abilities and Owen was ready to go find somewhere else. At least until Sherlock Holmes himself walked through the doors.
Owen immediately shifted so that he was completely invisible and hung behind the bar, waiting to see what the detective was going to do. Messing with him was going to be hilarious.
@sherllockedholmes
Sherlock simply didn’t know what to do with himself. He was an angel now and while he had wings and not-at-all-foreign sense of arrogance and a very foreign sense of self-righteousness about him now, he wanted to do the Holmesian thing and experiment. Which led him to the bar, where a full bottle of whiskey turned to near empty, shot glasses scattered across the bar and littering the floor. Nothing. He felt nothing. He’d just opened a bottle of tequila (having heard from someone once that it was a horrible idea to mix alcohol) hoping that would help him feel something different, when he muttered. “God, if you’re listening, you could make this a bit more enjoyable.” He was being sarcastic, he knew god wasn’t listening to him. And honestly, despite the fact that he was an angel, he simply didn’t care about god. Perhaps it was because of his certainty as a human that there wasn’t a god that he viewed this new experience more as how it would affect him rather than any newfound loyalty to something that clearly wasn’t helping them out of here.
Yes, of yourself.
You seem not to know the definition of the word ‘projection’. Would you like to google it or do you think you can manage a dictionary?
blood sucker - jacklock
Jack had been waiting in the parlour of the Town Hall for Sherlock Holmes to arrive. It wasn’t often that the famous detective would pay him a visit and it went without saying that the Captain was willing to go all out with the grandiose appearances.
That and he was also a vampire and he had to have some sort of sense of pretentiousness about him. He wasn’t about to be a low bottom feeding one. Absolutely not.
When he saw the man enter the building, he watched from the shadows and stalked him silently as he descended the stairs to the Hub. It was then that he realised that everyone probably automatically assumed that he’d be down there. It was a nice assumption and one that he would be using for safety at a later date.
Stepping into the light, he cleared his throat as he descended in turn. Twisting his hand around to invite the detective in and more politely, to shake his hand. “Sherlock Holmes, glad to see you’ve made it, and may I comment that you look amazing.” He also smelled amazing, and Jack wondered if that was to do with the new angelic blood that was coursing through his veins.
Sherlock’s steps slowed as he descended the stairs, finding that something wasn’t... quite right. It seemed that his perceptive skills weren’t as sharp or focused when it came to Jack, because it turned out that he’d completely missed him in the parlor of the Town Hall. That was... disconcerting, but not enough for Sherlock to remain focused on it when Jack was right in such close proximity. He turned around, finding Jack standing right in front of him, his heart pounding harder in his chest for a reason he couldn’t ascertain. Sherlock wasn’t a very well-mannered person, but he did shake Jack’s hand out of pure desire to. In fact, Jack’s handshake was so strong that Sherlock had forgotten to take his hand back.
“You may,” Sherlock said, still having a semblance of his wit about him despite Jack’s strong presence. Sherlock wasn’t aware of what was happening to him, mostly because he hadn’t ever experienced anything quite like this before. It was at this point that he realized his hand was still in Jack’s and he jerked it away before straightening his hair on his head. He noted that Jack was still at the upper portion of the stairs and Sherlock closer to the Hub, but he perceived no danger and therefore discarded the information. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He normally would have said that statement sarcastically and while it may have still sat in his mouth that way, there was nothing sarcastic about his meaning. It truly was a pleasure to be here right now.
Watson + Sherlock || A Day In Blue
A friend, found. For merely a moment, nothing but the wind moved. It whipped past his fingers in through his hair. It brushed his nose. Although only a few days passed since he had seen Sherlock– Appledore had ruffled him– the doctor was still incredibly relieved to see a familiar face. He slowed his breaths by touching his knees for just a second, catching up on the current events. “Oh, thank god. Sherlock–” he cut himself off, bewildered. John gestured plainly to the world around them.
“What the hell is going on?”
Maybe he would have some insight to their situation. Surely he would have made several deductions by now. He was probably even on his was to fix whatever had happened; the detective solved this mysterious ‘Pocket’ business. At least, John hoped so. What he had heard from the only other face he’d run into was outlandish and not completely understood.
Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he’d stood there, studying John’s face. He was... older. Or was it simply that Sherlock hadn’t paid close attention to the details of John’s face once he’d memorized what he looked like on the day they’d met and the prolonged separation made everything evident now? Even after John had spoken to him, Sherlock stood there for a moment, stunned.
What the hell is going on? John’s question seemed to echo in his head.
This was a trick. All of Sherlock’s powers of observation seemed to escape him at the moment, emotion overtaking him in a way it almost never did. In one swift movement, Sherlock put his forearm to John’s chest, pushing him backward and up against the nearest wall, which happened to be to the Sheriff’s station.
“What’s the point?” he asked ‘John’, thinking he might be one of the creators of the Pocket in disguise or an android controlled by someone far away. “Why are you doing this? What do you have to gain?”
Well I’m sure if I slap you hard enough it’ll knock that memory back into place.
Biologically impossible and not an altogether great metaphor.
Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, who are you?
Sherlock, please, don’t start blabbing now.
Classic projection.
