there is nothing more deceptive

[costing]

Who| sherlock holmes & open.
What| an arrival, an exploration, perhaps more than one encounter.
Where| the basement & fourth floor.
When| the beginning of week 5.
Warnings/Notes| to be added as needed.

His first thought is that the entire situation is ludicrous. The outfits, the setting, the very premise. After entering the arena, Sherlock’s first thought is to wrap his head around the entirety of the situation, but that proves easier thought of than done. He takes to rubbing his forearm where the tracker had been implanted, a gesture he knows comes off as a nervous tick but one that he can’t help.

The need for cover doesn’t seem real to him, yet, but he bets on the fact that the explanation he was given was true. So when he finds an overturned car in the basement, he ducks around it for a moment. He tries to take stock, listens carefully. If he hears anyone approach, he’ll try to observe them before making himself known. He isn’t much of a runner, but he’s counting on his ability to distract if it comes down to it.

--

A little while later he can be found at one of the doors to the staircases. He knows that the elevators would be faster, but they’re also more easily controlled. He doesn’t have any of his lock-picking tools with him, but he’s good at improvising. So for several long minutes, Sherlock toys with the locks with bits of thin rubble, trying to rig them open.

He looks as though his concentration on the lock is absolute; he doesn’t turn his head or even pause. But his senses are acute, trained to notice if anyone comes at him. He knows of his own tendency to get lost in his own head, and so tries his utmost to be as alert as he can.

--

And finally, he’ll grow tired of the door’s lock and abandon it. That’s a tough pill for him to swallow—failing at something—but compared to all else going on around him, it’s the smallest on his list of grievances. Instead, now, he turns to the elevators and picks a random number once he’s inside.

He ends up on the fourth floor. He lifts a brow, as he prepares to exit the elevator. A museum. He supposes that’s fitting, given the atmosphere of the arena. A museum is a place of past spectacle. They’ve just now combined it with a live, present one. It’s almost too fitting, in a campy way that makes him feel like he’s being mocked. But he takes a deep breath, rubs at his arm again, and prepares to explore.

( ooc: feel free to encounter him at any point; i'll edit things if anything major occurs. i have a permissions post for deductions here, if there's anything you think i/sherlock should know. and if you'd like any more specific scenarios or want to plot a bit further, please let me know. )

Comments

[inhumanity]

Christopher shakes his head in disagreement, now affecting a certain indigence. "Nothing fun happened during the Victorian era, except for myself and the Ripper, and I'm starting to think the Poet lied in the details he gave about Jack."

Still sorting through the plants, he comes across a pair that he holds up to his eye to scrutinize. Deciding that there likely isn't any poison on either of them, he holds one out to Sherlock. "Of course we want attention. It's difficult to befriend anyone if you're invisible, which is doubtless why Liza has so much trouble. It's simply human instinct to bond with people around campfires, particularly if there is food to share."

[costing]

"On a first-name basis, were you?" That is actually quite interesting. Jack the Ripper is something of his dream case-- if the centuries didn't separate them, could he have solved him? Caught him? Sherlock likes to think so. It's also nice to have confirmation that Christopher is from another era, almost exactly the one Sherlock had guessed.

"I avoid that instinct when at all possible." He leans forward to examine the plant, eyes widening. It's not exactly what they're looking for, but it is real. Not artificially produced. How had the Game Makers done any of this?

"Who's Liza, then?"

[inhumanity]

A little melancholic, Christopher says, "No, I was in America the whole time. I never got to meet him. But the Poet used to read me the newspaper clippings before bed." Explanatorily, he adds, "He and Liza are what you might call my siblings. Isn't it marvellous?"

He doesn't mean that they're siblings, and he indicates as much by waving the little plant. "Humanity truly is capable of all kinds of remarkable things. I respect your efforts to reject your instincts. Of course, it sounds like you have chosen to ignore some of the most fun instincts human have, but that shan't be a problem. I'll just help you pick a new instinct to suppress so that you can enjoy that one with me."

[costing]

Suppressing instincts. That's ironic. Addiction isn't a moment-to-moment battle for him, but it is day-to-day. If anything is a suppression of harsh instincts, it's staying sober. But Sherlock does not say as much now. Instead he just hums, thoughtfully, and walks past Christopher to look at another part of the museum entirely.

"You'll find I don't have any instincts towards familial bonds or camaraderie. I'm sorry to say you'll be disappointed on that score."

[inhumanity]

Christopher doesn't follow right now. Instead, he sits down in the diorama, running his fingers over the false flowers. The corner of his eye watched Sherlock's movements, assessed and remembered them. A thoughtful hum like that is a confident choice or a careless mistake in a place like this. Christopher hasn't yet decided which Sherlock is.

"That's all right. As I don't have any instincts for it either, I can make up for what you're lacking by doubling what I have. We'll be perfectly balanced."

[costing]

"Or doubly over-weighed." Christopher has become a bit of a puzzle-- each new piece of information he's learned about him only begs more questions. The fact that he isn't easily solved is both frustrating and intriguing. But Sherlock doesn't know whether he has the time to dally and investigate.

"I thank you for the thought, in any case."

[inhumanity]

"My, wouldn't that be an unnatural affair?" Christopher has apparently decided to settle down, shifting his legs to cross them as he toys with the flower. "Further in, this floor has most of the weapons that haven't been stolen yet. If you've a weapon that harmonizes with your heart, you ought to seek it out before it's stolen away."

[costing]

"I'm not a soldier. But I'm sure that much was obvious." He has no use for weapons, not when he hasn't made decisions about this place yet.

"And what about you? You intend to get by with just shattered glass?"