capeandcowllogs | trapped souls in the afterglow, clear as a ghost, the chant echoes

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trapped souls in the afterglow, clear as a ghost, the chant echoes

WHO:

formidophobia
WHERE: Green-Wood Cemetery
WHEN: 4 o'clock in the morning. Totally legit.
WARNINGS: Spookiness??
SUMMARY: Forewarned is forearmed, or at least fore-interested, as Sherlock proves, coming to visit a guy he knows is dangerous at the dead of night in a cemetery. Jon doesn't actually know who he's invited out or he'd have suggested meeting at the Lincoln Center's Avery Fisher Hall or something.
FORMAT: Lazyspam for me.

[It was a still night, not a whisper of wind to stir the grass at Jon's feet as he stood before the impressive monument, where marble angels knelt in silent submission all around. It was arresting.

And yet, for all the pounds-per-square-inch of sculpt there were, dead was dead, and alive was so much more alive. A rudimentary wooden cross to mark a passing life could no more revivify than could all the marble palaces in memoriam.

His eyes glinted with the yellow light as he waited, leaning his skinny body against the grave to the right of the monument, thinking over the man he was supposed to meet here. What had intrigued him immediately wasn't the drug use - he'd seen plenty of that in the streets, people so desperate for happiness they'd shoot talcum powder and snort canned air, and he'd woven a snidely superior thread around cokeheads and criminals of varied stripe, a dozen minds all alone in the same room while he bartered with a dealer over dollars and cents.

No. The man didn't talk like a junkie. Didn't act like a junkie. He spoke like a learned man. And he was hiding something, Jon was sure.

And he intended to find out what was buried under Mr. Holmes' inarguably impressive mental monument.]

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[Sherlock wasn't stupid. He knew what he was getting into. He made a stop to one of the shadier creatures he'd met in the City to pick up some protection first - nice, cold, and hard in his pocket. He didn't expect to have to use it, but it was always good to be prepared. Unlike most of the others who were ported into this city, Sherlock had nothing but his wits to protect him.]

[He approached the cemetery cautiously, but not slowly. Every muscle in his body was tense with expectation, but his stride was confident. Hands seated in his pockets, chin tucked into his scarf, but grey eyes blazing with curiosity.]

[He slowed as he approached the monument, not quite falling under the yellow lamp light. His eyes darted to the figure and drank him in before he spoke.]

You are my 4 o'clock, I presume?

[Jon swung his head to look, recognizing the man from the brief video post] Yes. Evening. Or is it morning? Technically morning, I suppose.

I wonder, am I going to get a name off you? You may already know mine.

[His eyes narrow just a fraction. But... It's hardly like he's kept his identity secret on the comm. If Crane wanted, he could easily find him.]

... I know more about you than your name, Dr. Crane.

Sherlock Holmes.

[this is turning out way more interesting than he thought. And he'd not rated it down in his head, either. Sherlock Holmes. Holy shit. He's read those books.]

Sherlock Holmes. Of course... There are more things in heaven and earth... [he pushes off away from the gravestone, walking flush across the grave as he moves towards Sherlock, challenge writ large in his body language, a languid sway of arrogant power loosely contained in the skinny frame--with the slight suggestion that a few of his many broken bones didn't heal quite right in the past.] Hm. I'm far from Moriarty, but I'll do my best, Detective.

I hope you don't think I'll give you a discount just because you're famous.

Sherlock is infinitely still, his face a placid mask, even as every fiber of his being is tensed and poised. His eyes are the only thing that moves. Taking in every slightly off motion.

Moriarty. That name again. The name that meant nothing to him at all, save for vague mentions of a 'nemesis'. But the tone implied everything. He might not know the name, but with that tone he knew what it meant.

"I wasn't aware that I was," he said, baritone smooth as silk. Only partially a lie. He'd been recognized, sure, but less than a third of the time.

His hands, still in his pockets, betrayed no motion. But he could feel the sweet cold hardness of the gun resting there. No need for it yet. There was still room for conversation, with this one.

"You are. And writ particularly large in the shadow of the man who haunts my nightmares," Crane intoned, "The mental half, anyway. The physical half may as well be sprung from hell, and there's no relation."

He stopped close, a foot or so away. Only had three inches on Sherlock, which was a peculiar feeling. "Assuming you're not working with the police to make me incriminate myself - and there are easier ways to do a sting operation, I promise you - I see no reason I can't give you what I suspect you want. Your hands?"

He could guess who Crane was implying. But he didn't seem to need outside input into that particular diatribe.

If there was anything Sherlock was particularly excellent at - besides being clever - it was his poker face. Not a muscle twitched even as Crane leaned closer.

"... If you know me then you should know I am not in the business of incriminating." He really wasn't. He slowly drew his hands out, long lean fingers leaving the gun in his pocket. Not a stroke of fear in his movements. He was fairly certain of his safety... for the time being.

He turned his hands palms up, bare in the moonlight.

"I would say paranoia doesn't suit you, but. That's hardly true."

"Nor the business of astronomy, politics, philosophy..." Not an indictment--a test. "Actually I like that about you. You know what you know and you don't know what you don't have any interest in knowing." Jon's eyes flicked a little, half closed, at the paranoia remark, tempted to acknowledge it openly, but he let it go with surprising restraint. The fear burned in his chest, longing to be set free.

"You know how this works." He slipped a hand in his own pocket, withdrew a small packet of powder, and held it out between two slim fingers. "The first one's always free."

Sherlock said nothing, at first. Of course it was true - he didn't care about politics, philosophy, astronomy, literature, or anything else that wasn't immediately and incredibly useful. His mind was honed as perfectly as he could manage, and it meant getting rid of everything that made up the clutter. But the fact that Crane knew this worried Sherlock, even if none of that worry showed in his expression. He wondered just how much of his method was laid out in that book.

"It's hardly my first show." Even of the evening. He reached out slowly, the movement sure but calculated, fingers slipping around the packet and pulling it gently from Crane's hand. He knew the weight almost immediately, and barely looked at it as he slipped it into his pocket - the one without the gun.

"But it's your first dealing with me. Who wants to pay for something if they don't know the quality of it?" A beat. "C17H21NO4, not that you asked, but rest assured I have my--experimental formulas elsewhere."

He licked an eyetooth, then abruptly turned away, gesturing to the monument, "This was built for a seventeen year old girl. Charlotte Canda--spoke five languages, she was very well educated. She died on her birthday. Her fiance committed suicide a year later--that's his grave, there, with the kneeling angel on it. They weren't permitted burial together, as is Roman Catholic law. It's quite sad."

A quick glance over his shoulder, gauging the response.

"Incredibly." His tone belied the opposite. What did he care about a woman who was - quick glance at the monument - marble, Victorian architecture, still well kept but the wear was obvious - over a 150 years dead? Even less that a man would commit suicide on her behalf. And people wondered why he discredited emotion.

No. The monument itself held no interest for him. Crane's meaning, however, was another thing. A threat? Even those young and 'well educated' can face tragedy and death? Hardly something anyone had to remind him. And there was no one here who would be particularly affected by his death, so it wasn't a threat to anyone he knew. Especially in this place, where death meant little to anyone.

A test. Perhaps? Gauging the reaction that Crane thought he could expect, based on whatever was in that book. Sherlock briefly considered taking a persona - showing more care than he felt - in order simply to unbalance the man's expectations of him. But no. This man was dangerous, and in a place where everyone had a power, Sherlock apparently only had his reputation to bank on. And a man obsessed by fear would ultimately look for weakness. No. Sherlock was not about to give him any - even fake ones.

He let his body visibly relax, almost languidly, his weight shifting to a single foot and his hands sliding lazily back into his pockets. He let his eyelids look slightly more heavy, his chin tuck just barely into the scarf pulled tight around his neck.

"You didn't bring me to this particular place for a century and a half old history lesson." He let just a slight trace of boredom slip into his tone - completely intentionally. It was hardly a question.

"Nor for a free sample. So if you would take my measure, Dr. Crane, you simply have to ask."

"That's true, I didn't. But the lecturer in me wants to educate on all of life's lessons. It's a terrible habit." He folded his hands behind himself, thumbing at the ring on his middle digit.

"You're so young." Jonathan kept his back to Holmes, thinking for a second, the manic energy still visible in every twitch and roll of his shoulder, the tension at the back of his neck, creeping up to tighten the skin at his skull until it ached. It felt good to feel. It felt good to risk, showing his back to the other man.

"But the Porter, I gather, has ways of playing with time. I was young here once, it seems. And may be again."

He traced a circle in the air idly with one finger, and bit back a smile. "Where is Watson?"

Sherlock was deadly still, but there was a flare in his eyes at the name.

Again. Again.

When Ghost had mentioned him, Sherlock had been surprised and curious, it was true. He had idly sketched out the man's face and found his other on the comm and his brain had been slowly working on the problem in the back of his mind for weeks. But it was a curiosity, a simple puzzle. A question about his life that he could not answer. This. This was different.

He could hear the threat implied. Ever so gently, true, but the question was pointed - especially after Crane's history lesson.

Watson was supposed to be a weakness. ... But why?

"Safely at home in his own universe, I assume." There might have been just a thread of tension in his voice, but his expression was still calm. Save for that slight light in his eyes. He said nothing about Crane's observations about his age... but the fact that Crane assumed he would be older and asked about Watson meant something. But god only knew that Sherlock wouldn't give him the satisfaction of finding out about that particular lapse in his history.

"You can hardly expect the Porter to bring us in pairs."

"You hope. But hope is such a fragile emotion... so susceptible to doubt and suspicions, sneaking in through the cracks with logic and facts--they say Lachesis stops time in your home universe, but suppose they're wrong? Suppose you're the exception? Suppose he's in danger, hm?"

He was completely still for a second, a soft sibilant laugh whispering from his frame, then turned to encompass Sherlock and the graves behind him in a lazy sweeping gesture, "But don't mistake me. I'm not after you. And I'm not a mere drug dealer either... I'm so much more, hidden deep down inside--just like you."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Obviously he was trying to scare him - to frighten him, but Sherlock had never been one to care about how much danger any particular individual was in.

He thought back to his meeting with John. Despite the man's psychosomatic limp, he was still a soldier. And capable. Why would Sherlock worry about him, even if he was in danger? It had nothing to do with him.

"I'm very certain Dr. Watson is entirely capable of taking care of himself."

He watched as Crane twirled, very still, though the tension had started to creep back into his muscles again.

"Obviously. I hardly take 4 am calls with mere drug dealers," he said, emphasizing the word in exactly the same tone as Crane, slightly mocking.

"Of course he is." The briefest shadow of concern fell across his face, thinking to himself, then he was waving it off carelessly. "And you wanted to learn a few things about me, too, I'm sure. Powers of deduction. Really something, I should know."

He leaned over, draping across the kneeling angel statue, his grin just a fraction shy of derangement. "Let me tell you a few things about yourself, Sherlock. Or--would you rather I not?"

A long, thin, eyebrow raised.

He couldn't claim he wasn't curious to know exactly what Crane knew about him. He was at a disadvantage, here, and he knew it.

And Who was he to keep a man from monologueing?

"By all means. Indulge me."

"I know you should probably avoid Reichenbach." A beat, then, more seriously, more darkly, "Usually I do so much more with less. I feel terrible about this. --You don't live in the shadow of your older brother, of course. Some people would be happy to be only children, though."

He shrugged, "You're a brilliant man, a real scholar, and I don't doubt you'd divide yourself from your emotions if you could, but burying them works nearly as well, doesn't it? You're not a creature of vice--besides the obvious--and thus not a creature vulnerable to the typical machinations of society, but above and apart from it. In that way, you and I are alike..."

Reichenbach meant nothing. Not surprising. However... His brother... Mycroft. At last a dropped hint that made sense in his present history. And it was true - as much as Mycroft would love to pretend that he towered over Sherlock, he was quite confident in his ability beyond him. His 'Arch Enemy'.

He said nothing about 'emotions'. No one at home had believed he'd had any, to the point where he had pretty much convinced himself it was true. But unfortunately he was all too aware that particular human weakness applied to him, as well. He could only hope it applied less than with others.

"Alike?" He let sarcasm drip into the word, and a little bit of haughtiness. A small, self-pleased smirk drew across his face. "We may be alike, Dr. Crane, but there is a difference to being above society and below it. I'm not the one that's taken to living in abandoned buildings."

"What better place to cook up illegal substances--like cocaine--than somewhere bereft of witnesses, beyond society's cast-offs?" He sniffed, "I like you, so I'll warn you. My circumstances are highly variable and my memory for offenses is long, and there are a trail of broken minds that stand gibbering testament to both. Have a care, detective."

The silence stretched for a second as his fingers splayed, then tensed, then he clapped down his free hand on the hand with the ring and squeezed tight, white-knuckle-tight, and he took a slow, steadying breath.

"What use is life if you don't feel it, mm? If it's a puzzle and you've figured out the answer but there's no one who cares enough to listen to it, if you're all alone in a city throbbing--teeming--with passion and energy and you feel nothing?"

Sherlock merely shrugged to the first part, as if any offense he had given was rolling off his shoulders.

"Knowledge for Knowledge, Crane." He said simply. You show me yours and I'll show you mine. Checkmate. But he wasn't going to push that particular button again - not this time. He had simply felt like reminding Crane, if he had forgotten, of what he does. With the threats now laid bare, the reaction had pleased him.

What came after had not.

It was too pointed. He had never minded being alone - accepted it, resigned to it. He was not a man with whom people tended to want to converse with longer than they had to. This city was no different, though a surprisingly larger percentage were at least willing to work with him. But the puzzle. The puzzle. It was a feeling that had carried over from his own world, though he didn't dare try to put a finger on it. He didn't know what the use was, other than to get to the next puzzle, keep his mind occupied. Distracted.

It was too true and Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his shoulders straightened out of the slouch, but he wasn't about to give Crane any satisfaction for knowing him. For reading a book.

"As you said earlier, Dr. Crane, philosophy his hardly my area." The words were slow, deliberate, and low.

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trapped souls in the afterglow, clear as a ghost, the chant echoes

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