thearena | Meetings and Partings

It had been a month, and the once shiny museum was now a mess. The sixth floor wasn't destroyed like the one where the volcano exploded, but somehow it was more unsettling here. The wax figures were knocked over, limbs snapped off, stripped of their clothes. Blood, dried brown, spattered the floor and walls from any number of confrontations. Being alone here wasn't pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. But Sherlock and John were off scrounging for supplies, and Joan decided to hobble toward the cafe to see if there was any food left.

She didn't get too far from their hideout before she heard a racket from the wax maze ahead of her, shouting and screaming and thudding.

Her eyes narrowed, and she started edging backwards.

Joan has given up trying to push herself off the floor. Even if her bones weren't a shattered, agonizing mess, she didn't have the energy any more. So she lay there, crumpled on her side, her breath irregular and shallow, her body beyond pain, her nerves having shrieked themselves hoarse. Her sight was fading, and she was cold but too weak to shiver.

That he ends up on the 6th floor by that point is chance, really. Though he may question the circumstances later, at the moment Sherlock is continuing his methodological exploration of the arena. He’s managed to avoid serious incident so far, and the full gravity of the situation hasn’t yet caught up with him.

And then he sees her. He’ll hate himself for this, later, but the first thing he does is catalogue injury—clinically, impersonally. The way her body is bent, the amount of trauma he can discern at a glance. The academic part of his mind has studied her long before he himself realizes who he’s looking at.

“Watson!” His voice is sharp, a reprimand and not yet a plea. He hadn’t even expected to see her, here, and now he’s crossing the space between them in quick, irregular strides. “Watson,” he says again, when he’s reached her. He’s no medic, but he knows a lost cause when he sees one. Cause of death is a mocking refrain in the back of his mind.

She hears him, and her brain registers his voice first, and her name second. She looks up and sees him hurrying toward her, coming into focus as he nears. Her lips move, a slight breath carrying the word.

"Sherlock..."

She knows he's not actually there. She's hallucinating. Her brain is misfiring. Or it's the Capitol messing with her again, cruelly showing her her friend, for...what? Maybe they do want her to be comforted. Maybe that's he story at this moment. The virtuous doctor who refuses to kill comforted by a vision of the man she misses.

He's not there.

He can tell she’s fading, but his mind doesn’t know what to focus on first. He has nothing to treat her injuries with, and if they’re internal he won’t stand a chance. He settles down beside her, on his knees, and places a hand a hand of either of her shoulders.

“Stay conscious,” he orders curtly. Part of him wants to continue with a jab her self-defense skills, but even he knows when it isn’t the right time. He waits for a response, prompts her with a question: “Watson, can you hear me?”

He touches her, and a look of confusion crosses her face. A hologram can't touch her. Maybe...maybe it's still a hallucination. Although far more likely is the option she both hopes for and dreads.

He's actually there. They brought him into this hell.

He tells her to stay conscious, and she gives him a slow blink that would be an eye roll if she had the energy.

"Yes." Again, a slight motion of her lips, a slight breath of air. Then her forehead creases faintly.

"It's..." She takes a breath, trying to get enough air, her eyelids fluttering as she tries to stay awake. Stay with him.

She's got to tell him it's okay.

He’s no doctor, but he knows the technical responses to this situation. Blood transfusions and intravenous fluid intake to avoid drastic losses in blood pressure. Imaging tests to find areas of internal bleeding. Ultimately, surgery to repair said areas of damage.

And nothing he can do for her under the present circumstances. No emergency number to call.

“Your end of this partnership carries the brunt of the medical expertise,” he tells her calmly. “Tell me what I can do for you.”

But she can barely finish a sentence.

There's nothing he can do, of course. Her mouth is coppery with the blood filling her lungs. She's not going to be able to stay conscious for much longer.

"Okay," she whispers. "It's okay."

Her eyelids flutter again, but she's fighting. He won't understand. They don't tell the new Tributes that they bring them back after they die.

He can't help it; he shakes her a bit, desperate. He can feel the adrenaline-- and all else-- starting to pound through him, demanding that he react. With Irene, it has been violence. A rage so powerful he had to let it out or smother it entirely. This isn't that emotion. This is... something else, something he can't process.

"You grasp on the situation is tenuous at best, Watson. This is not--" He cuts himself off. It isn't okay.

He shakes her, and she makes a small sound of pain as the jagged edges of her shattered bones grind together. She has to tell him...tell him...

She's fading, and her ability to hold that thought slips away. It's okay. It's okay.

Her eyes slip closed.

"Cold." The word is barely audible.

He's not used to offering people physical comfort. It's uncomfortable for him, at best. And yet he leans in, adjusts his position so that one of his arms is around Watson's shoulders. It's the closest thing to an embrace that he's given anyone in a long time. He has nothing else to off warmth with; he tells himself that it's scientific, logical, to keep her close.

"I must admit," he says carefully, after a moment, "that none of this seems quite real."

Her head turns to rest on his arm. Her breath is very shallow now, her body limp against him. Not quite real. It's what she thought at first, too. That it must be a dream, the only improbable in a mess of impossibility.

Her lips move soundlessly. It's okay. It's okay.

Then she loses consciousness, her breath slowing, slowing, then ceasing altogether.

"I am going to have to ask you to stop lying to me, Watson," he says. He can read her lips, knows her well enough to know that she would choose this moment to continue her penchant for selflessness. It's an annoying habit, one he'll have to train her out of-- his thoughts abruptly stop. Death is nothing if not final.

"In any case," he continues, speaking in quick, short bursts, "I believe it's my place to comfort you, in this situation." But what comfort can be offer?

He doesn't understand. And Joan dies unable to make him understand, her body still and cold in his arms.

His grip on her goes tight and vice-like. It takes him only a moment to check her vitals with his free hand, to come to the obvious conclusion. He's more than familiar with murder-- he is not prepared for this.

So he remains seated there for long moments, thinking his way around the deluge of emotion he feels. He's not sure how to process it, without her, and that's a kind of catch 22 he doesn't want to deal with ever again.

Edited 2014-02-16 03:30 (UTC)

After several minutes, Sherlock realizes that he has to move. He doesn’t stray far, however—just picks up Watson in his arms (she’s too light) and moves behind the nearest wall, so that he’ll be able to see if anyone’s coming towards him. His lips are pursed, his eyes murderous. He supposes he really could kill someone, at the moment, but there’s no focus for his rage. No way of knowing who killed Watson. He doesn’t deal well with unfocused emotions, and his mind is crowded with too many thoughts.

But he’s vigilante, aware. He’ll know if someone approaches.

His fever hasn't really abated, though he's gotten extremely good at appearing to be fine, despite the heat under his skin. The pain of his broken ribs had settled into a dull roar, his tooth still missing where he had spat it out, the bruises from when Howard had hit him in the side of his face with a snow-globe still dark and angry and purple. At least he'd gotten the little shards of glass out.

He was, in short, a mess, held together by sheer will power and no small amount of make-shift bandages. Like Joan had been, when he'd left her: wounded but alive, breathing despite everything the arena had thrown at them.

It was how he expected to find her, when he returned to the sixth floor (up the stairs rather than the elevator, to avoid that fateful chime). But something had changed while he'd been gone. He froze coming out of the stairwell, assessing the new damage around the floor. The wax figures that had been standing when he'd saw them last. The blood--

No. He rushed forward to the blood on the floor, reaching out to touch it - still wet - and glance up to see where the body had been dragged.

He hears the movement before anything else. Sherlock’s encountered enough people in the arena to know that allies aren’t unheard of, but Watson had been alone when he’d found her. It doesn’t occur to him that she might’ve had allies—though it should, given that it’s her. He doesn’t believe that it would’ve happened, if someone had been there to look out for her. (If he had been there, really.)

He is, perhaps, in the mood for a fight, but he’s also self-aware enough to realize the state he’s in. Moran had been the last person he’d hurt intentionally, and though it had filled him with a kind of fierce satisfaction at the time he’d come to regret his actions, and not just because of Irene’s true fate and identity.

But crouched against the wall, with Watson’s body growing colder next to him, he isn’t prepared to attack. He doesn’t want to play whatever game he’s been forced into. So he calls out, instead, “I’ve no white flag handy, but I’ve also been accosted more than once already, today. Perhaps you could come back later?” His voice is harsh, hoarse, strange to himself. Not his usual nonchalance, at all.

He doesn't recognize the voice, but that means little. Every arena brought new tributes mid-game, so all it meant was a wild card. Something new, possibly dangerous, but definitely confused.

No one came into their first arena without a good deal of confusion.

He was about to make some snide comment about the new tribute not exactly having dibs on the place when his eyes finally find the man and something cold and hard drops in the pit of his stomach.

Joan.

He could read her death a mile away and at first it was cold, infinitely cold, but it didn't take long for the rage to spring up suddenly, and in force, Sherlock's lips turning into a snarl.

"Step away from her. Now." He snaps. It's worse, that he can read it - that none of it matches up. That the new tribute stumbled on her, like he had, that he wasn't her killer. He had broken Howard's hand for breaking Joan's knee and he knew very well that he would break the promise he'd made to himself for whoever had killed her.

And how utterly convenient it would have been, if it had been this man.

Sherlock lifts both his brows at the order, incredulous and a little offended. She’s his partner, and though he’s never begrudged her her time with other people there’s always been an understanding between them. That someone else would dare to separate them—to try—is an abhorrent concept.

He’s never had a very good sense of self-preservation. So maybe that’s why he doesn’t move to defend himself or his position. In fact, he doesn’t shift at all, as if to underscore the fact that he won’t be stepping away.

“I will tell you again,” he says calmly, “to leave. I can’t see what else you expect to do here.” Because anyone—including this man, who Sherlock dislikes on principle, who he’s observing but not really seeing—and everyone is useless, now.

"RRRRRRAGH!"

Orc looked to be a mess in the best of words. Black gunk was dripping from the stones around his mouth and chin as he swung one of his arms through a wax figure that crumbled under his force. He was clearly confused about their shape.

Another swing, another crash and another groan of frustration, a wax head bounced off his foot and rolled towards Joan.

He was clumsy, he was slow and if she was particularly perceptive she might see he wasn't breathing hard. Because Orc wasn't home anymore. His name had been announced on the overhead hours ago having died by a bite from Eponine.

The observations came flooding into her head, hard and fast. Orc. Stone again. Black gunk. Gunk like R? Raging toward her. Oh god.

"Orc!" she said sharply, trying to move backwards and finding it even slower and more clumsy than moving forwards. "Orc, no! STOP!"

Her cries just sent a surge of desire through Orc and his pace doubled. Thundering along now like a fright train, momentum and his own weight became his enemies as he took a swipe at Joan, missed and ended up crashing into her slamming her into a wall with the force of a speeding car.

...a speeding car made of rocks.

He continued on till he flew into the elevator so hard the entire structure shook and for a heart stopping moment the viewers at home hoped the elevator would fall. But no, the doors slid closed and just like that he was gone.

But what of Joan? The camera panned around to find her desperately.

He's already ruled out a good deal of options, and the stranger's words are quickly cementing his theory, and he can't decide how he feels about it.

Because the only people who are so particular about bodies are friends, and Sherlock knows all of Joan's friends.

So this must be one from home.

And he only knows the name of one of those.

"Unless your name is Sherlock Holmes, you will immediately remove yourself," Sherlock growled, already afraid he knew the answer, twisting like a stab of ice threw his chest. But maybe, just maybe, Joan had friends she hadn't mentioned. Maybe there were people who cared about her as much as he knew her Sherlock should.

Her Sherlock.

Self doubt was a fairly unfamiliar feeling to him, but he couldn't deny how it tore through him now.

He'd never wanted more dearly to be wrong.

The use of his name startles him, for a moment. Of course, the place is a panopticon—they had enough control to bring him here, to monitor the entire environment. Of course his name would be out there, for consumption, as well. It actually makes more sense than the alternative, all things considered. But that doesn’t make him comfortable with it.

He looks up at the other man keenly, trying to read the implications of his emotions. Clearly Watson is—was?—something to him. Enough that he would know who Sherlock is, by association. He doesn’t know whether that’s touching, or some kind of betrayal. He’s inclined towards the former, if only because he doesn’t want to think ill of Watson at all, right now. (Ever again?)

“Luckily, I meet that qualification,” Sherlock says stiffly. “And as I see it—if you refuse to leave and you have no intentions of killing me,” that part might be tempting fate, a bit, “you can stop acting as if I’m the one who did this.”

His fist clenched, unclenched, and clenched again.

He had known. (No you hadn't, don't delude yourself, Sherlock.) He had known that the other would appear. Had suspected it, as soon as Joan had appeared. Had known, before either she or John had come that he wasn't the only one of him. Had heard about the books, the stories, the myriad of worlds. Had come to learn about the multiverse.

And here was the man who proved it, and Sherlock didn't need to prove it to himself beyond what he could see because he could see it.

Here was the man who made him nothing but another facet in the universe. Not unique. Not the only consulting detective. Somehow Joan had been alright. Somehow Joan had made sense, that if there was one John that of course the universes would replicate him, his conductor of light, and he'd let her in the way he'd let John in and he hadn't regretted it even though he nearly, almost, always regretted it.

He was rambling, but completely silently, staring at the other Sherlock but not seeing him, the minutes slipping by without his knowledge and he barely registered the words that the other man spoke.

"Fine," He finally got out after a full minute of calibration, and he took a step back, turning head head so that Sherlock couldn't see the flash of true grief that passed over his face. Because once the shock of finding Joan's body had passed, once the shock of finding another him had passed, then, and only then, came the guilt.

Twenty minutes.

He'd been gone twenty minutes, and she was already gone.

"Fine," he repeated, fainter than he meant.

While he waits for the other man to answer, Sherlock tries to figure out something, anything really, about him. There’s something eerily familiar in the way he conducts himself, though Sherlock can’t rightly find the source of the man’s irritation—or whatever deeper emotions he’s wrestling with. There’s no way for Sherlock to know, really, who this man is. The truth would never even be a possibility. But he’s… someone. Someone who cares about Watson, and who Watson probably cared about in return.

He clenches his jaw, rises slowly.

“You know who I am,” he says, stating the painfully obvious. “Who are you?”

He normally doesn’t have to rely on such basic questions. but he’s at a loss for anything else to do.

Well, wasn't that the question. He almost laughed - in fact, he did, a short, almost nervous laugh, like gas escaping. Who are you? That he could laugh now, at all times, worried him. The cracks of so many arenas showing through.

He wondered if Sherlock could read his history on him, or if the Capitol's handy 'reset' button erased it for him, every time he died. Every time he'd been brought back. How many now? He'd lost count.

(Three times for Joan.)

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," He said finally, his face hardening. It was the truth. "Thus it isn't important. I am -- I considered Joan a friend, and I need to examine her."

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock snaps. He waves a hand dismissively. “Blunt force trauma. Internal injuries, likely heavy bleeding. There was nothing to be done.” Nothing either of them could have done, Sherlock tries to convince himself. He nods at the wall a few paces off, where he’d moved Watson from.

“Something moving at considerable force hit her—she likely met the wall there.”

Speaking about Watson as if she were any other murder victim leaves a stale and acidic taste in his mouth. He shakes his head.

“I’ve come to believe many impossible things, today. Why don’t you try me?”

"Because you can't conclude the truth if you can't remove the impossible," Sherlock said bluntly. "I could tell you anything, and you would have absolutely no way of judging whether or not I told you the truth. When I tell you, I will be able to prove it."

He's already stepping over to where she hit the wall. Something the other Sherlock had said. But the other Sherlock didn't know that he walked with Gods and Monsters in this place.

"Definitely a tribute," He muttered. "They must have reactivated powers for this arena. Interesting. Haven't done that in a while."

He sounded detached, but he wasn't. He was far from detached. It wasn't the first time he had felt like pure murder since this arena had began, and he was very sure it wouldn't be the last.

“Is anything impossible, here?” he asks, more to himself than the other man. Because everything he’s learned so far seems to revel in turning his world’s conventions on their heads. Sherlock moves to follow him, even takes a step. But he won’t get much further from Watson. It doesn’t matter; he’s already learned all that he can from the scene.

“Powers,” he says flatly. And why not? He’s already met aliens, and someone who’d survived a zombie apocalypse. Or thought he had. It could all be staged.

That nagging doubt has been his worst enemy, thus far. It makes him second-guess every thought and keeps him from thinking in logical patterns. He can’t be sure of anything. Belatedly, he realizes the other man’s words were true.

“What do you intend to do?” he asks. “Now that’s she’s—” He stop short, again. It’s not something he’s used to, or that he wants to continue.

Sherlock didn't finish the sentence for him. 'Dead' wasn't in his vocabulary. Besides, if the other Sherlock was here-- They wouldn't take her away now, surely? What a terrible story that would make. No.

No, it was far, far more likely that he was the one being replaced.

"Escape." He answered, flatly. And for a second it isn't clear which question he's answering, until he adds: "Escape is impossible."

He turned to face his other self (Who looked nothing like him, sounded nothing like him, but based on Joan had to be something like him.

And he hated him for that, just that, only that. He had other things to focus on.

"I do what we all must in the circumstances. Survive. Attempt not to loose what little I have left of myself."

Hope that an elevator dinged, hope that a package appeared...

"And find her killer. Of course."

“And whatever you’ll do the murderer won’t be at odds with your self?” It’s a hypocritical question. He’d been prepared to kill Moran, after all, and would have done it. He’s not sure if he even regrets it—regrets being fooled more.

He purses his lips for a moment and then releases a breath. Escape is impossible. Resurrection is improbably. Murder… unpalatable. What options does that leave him with? Death, and to die meaninglessly? It is not the fate he would’ve chosen for himself. He had so much else to do, to discover. And Watson…

He shakes his head. “You cannot seek retribution on her behalf.”

"You cannot tell me what I can and cannot do." Sherlock said flatly, standing up to turn back to the other man. "You have no idea who I am or what I am capable of."

Or the fact that he had sworn to himself, after the last arena, that he would never kill another man.

He didn't swear that he wouldn't make one suffer, however.

(Howard had proved that.)

He raised a hand, pointing to the dark bruise on his face, to the shards of glass.

"How do you think I received this, if not in violence? You may be her friend, Sherlock Holmes, but you are no veteran, not in this place, and she has done and seen more than you could possibly imagine. What I do on her behalf is my own business, and mine alone."

Sherlock couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the first statement. Of course he didn’t know this man—he’d outright refused to reveal his identity. But that didn’t mean he didn’t know about him. That was always easier to tell. He could see the way he carried himself, the way he spoke. The way he’d reacted to Watson’s corpse.

Is this man capable of killing? Sherlock honestly has no idea. Under normal circumstance, he’d probably bet on “no.” But the arena is designed to push people past their limits. Every aspect of it is meant to push people towards a killing edge. Perhaps a truly staggering morality could best it.

And it’s for that reason that he scoffs at the other Sherlock now. “She has done more than I could imagine? Is that meant to make me doubt her? That’s rather cold, current circumstances considered.”

He shrugs, even though there’s a cool rage building in him. “She won’t thank you for it. If you know her at all, you’ll realize that.”

She tried to get out of the way, but she was just too slow, and Orc was just too fast. Just too strong.

She hit the wall a couple feet up from the floor, and felt the collective crunch of her bones. The brace on her leg broke apart, and fell clattering to the ground as she landed into a heap with a wet thump. She screamed, but it came out in gasping barks, each inhalation, each exhalation, each twitch of movement, pure agony.

She tried to push herself up, and collapsed again. Her bones wouldn't support her. She managed to drag herself a few feet, although why, she didn't know. She didn't even have the mental wherewithal to consider that she could not be saved. That she was dying. Pain was the only thing she was fully aware of.

He actually let out a laugh.

"Doubt her? No. Doubt yourself? Perhaps. No, she is everything that she was the moment she stepped in here, it is hardly her fault that she has had to witness more."

He stepped closer, waving a finger up at the other, pointing at him.

"Don't deduce me. Don't try. Because none of the markers will line up, and you can't see my scars. You can't read all the times I've had to watch my friends die and you can't read how much this place has forced me to change. I will do everything in my power to keep her from changing, and - for her sake - everything to keep you from changing, but you will. Not. Dictate. To me. Do you understand?"

Edited 2014-02-19 04:49 (UTC)

He doesn’t step back, doesn’t react at all physically to the other Sherlock’s tirade. He’s clearly touched a nerve—several, actually, if he had to guess—but his own state of mind is so rubbed raw at the moment that he can’t stop to process all of it.

Instead, he just shakes his head. “You think rather highly of yourself, don’t you? I frankly don’t care to analyze you, or any of the rest of it. I was offering you a warning.”

He knows Watson better than anyone else—he has to keep believing that. That’s what partnership is, isn’t it? Relying on the other person, having them rely on you. He knows what time she wakes up in the morning and how she likes her coffee; more importantly, he knows her strict ethical code and her astonishing ability to learn. It’s been a comfort to him, that knowledge.

A warning. A warning. As if anything Sherlock Holmes could do, or would do, could possibly effect him.

"Trust me, I have no intention of coming between you," He said, a little bitterly. "I know better than you do how much you need her."

He looked down at her body, his lips thinning as he drew himself up. If he couldn't examine her, there was little else to be done here.

"They'll be cleaning up soon. I suggest you stay out of their way."

"Do you?" The question is asked lightly, but something in him constricts at the other man's words. How would he-- how would anyone-- know what she is to him? It's not a simple matter. He wouldn't be able to accurately explain it, himself. And yet this man presumes...

"And yours, evidently." He turns up his nose, knows he's acting juvenile, irresponsible even. But he turns away from the other man, and clenches his fists. Anger rolls through him, and he can't bring the emotion down. It's a cacophonous drumming in his ears, impossible to ignore.

Well that brought him to a stop. It was strange, like looking into a mirror that was distorted, twisted--

And he knew the distortion was entirely on his side.

How would this conversation have happened if their situations were reversed? If he had appeared, to replace Joan's Sherlock, instead of the other way around?

He stared flatly at the man for a very long moment, before saying a little coldly: "I won't fight you, if that's what you're assuming. I would offer help if I thought you would take it."

He reached into his robe, pulling out a knife he'd concocted out of a long piece of glass and a rough wooden handle, and held it out handle first, the glass cutting into his palm. It was stupid, he knew. The boiling rage somewhere in his gut, still not quelled, mixing with the pitch blackness of the depression he could feel sweeping itself up on him.

But he was nothing if not melodramatic.

Why not die by his own hand?

(Sort of.)

"Go on."

He sees the blood and his own runs somehow more violently through his veins. He snaps his head up, lips curling, disdainful response at the ready. But then he looks at the man’s face and he can’t act like he knows he normally would.

This man said he understood what Watson is to Sherlock, but Sherlock’s becoming convinced that he does not. What Watson has done for him goes far beyond companionship or support. In her small ways and bigger pushes, she has helped him become a better person. He had not valued himself, before; he had been arrogant and overconfident, but he had not actually thought about what his life was worth.

What is a life worth, if you just come back after death? It becomes meaningless. Sherlock can’t accept that—that all he’s worked for, that everything has been for nothing. That is simply unacceptable.

The anger flares in him, and he reaches out to slap the makeshift knife out of the other man’s hands before he’s even conscious of the gesture.

“You seem so sure of my intentions,” he snaps, “but yours are plain, as well. If you want to be rid of yourself, and this, do it yourself. Don’t rely on me to end it for you.”

Don’t be a coward.

The glass cuts into his palm as the makeshift knife is slapped to the floor, shattering on impact. He watches it fall and then looks down at his hand to watch the blood ooze, impassively.

"... It does seem like I have come to understand the final problem," He murmurs, more to himself than to Sherlock, before he squeezes his fist tight. A drop of sluggish blood hits the floor.

"Well, it would have been interesting, at least," He says finally, as if snapping himself out of it. As if he finally realised what he'd just been doing. (Was the fever that bad, he had to ask himself. Or was the death wish something permanently at the back of his mind?)

"But I think I've overstayed my welcome." His voice is tight as he takes a step back. "She isn't the only one, you know. John Watson is here, too."

He took another step backwards, and then slowly began to turn away.

He knows enough about the pressures of the arena by now to know that any mind would quickly be undone by them. It is, perhaps, only the knowledge that Watson would be alarmed or hurt by him falling apart that has kept Sherlock together until now—that, and the knowledge that he’s gone through the worst thing he could imagine, before, and it wasn’t what he thought. He knows he can’t trust himself under these circumstances, so he doesn’t.

So he can’t blame this man for his actions, even if he doesn’t particularly like them. The cryptic self-importance is really starting to grate, but before Sherlock can comment on that the words fall into place—John Watson. People had seemed, throughout the past day, to recognize his name but not him.

It doesn’t seem possible. It isn’t possible. He can’t trust his initial assumption, can’t trust his own mind. But the evidence is there, pounding away at his skull, demanding notice.

He wants to drown it out. And isn’t that a sobering thought?

When the other man turns away, Sherlock doesn’t stop him. But he does murmur, under his breath, “Maybe nothing is impossible.”

Even two Sherlock Holmes’s.

Meetings and Partings

Zombie Orc

Reunion with Sherlock

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would a group of sherlocks also be called a murder

............ yes.

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Re: Zombie Orc

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