capeandcowllogs | Where your eyes don't go a part of you is hovering

Where your eyes don't go a part of you is hovering

WHO: Everyone who's signed up for the Shadow Märchen plot and the people who get involved with them.
WHERE: All over the City.
WHEN: February 1st through February 9th. Specify the dates when you tag in.
WARNINGS: Probably a lot, since this is a festival of dark sides.
SUMMARY: The City plays host to a twisted theater of the mind as numerous imPorts become darkened, monstrous versions of themselves.
FORMAT: To be chosen by the thread-starters.

The start of a new month shouldn't mean anything special for the City--but this time, it does. Even if it's only because of an accident.

The pull of despair within each victim might come from nowhere, or it might seem like the most natural extension in the world of their current circumstances. However it manifests, the results come quickly: one living shadow all too eager to broadcast its nature far and wide, attached to a monstrous witch that warps the world around it in order to feel at home.

Where once there was an ordinary building, there now might lurk the entrance to a distorted dimension controlled by one of those witches. Where once there was a friend, there's probably now a monster. Can't find the friend that's become this monster? Don't worry too much about missing the chance--the familiars of their witch roam the streets looking for those who can be dragged into the labyrinth.

But take heart: what's within is still the same familiar person...in its own way.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He doesn't know Sherlock well enough to read his tone of voice without seeing his face, but unless the guy's ice-cold, maybe it's just his way of dealing with this whole mess. Besides, Bradbury can empathize with not wanting to leave his secrets out in the open.

"Yeah?" He murmurs, flexing his fingers and taking up his gun again, with both hands now. "Then I guess that means you know the fastest way to the top."

Not that it's easy for them to get there. Even with Sherlock's familiarity with the location, it's clear that it's become warped and twisted, hallways telescoping in ways that wouldn't fit into the real hospital, or choked with more of the same bleeding, broken soldiers that seem intent on having Bradbury and Sherlock join them.

Between the two of them, they manage to find a way through -- and Sherlock has ample opportunity to put that rifle to good use -- though it feels like a small eternity before they finally burst out onto the rooftop, Bradbury entirely uncertain of what they'll find there.

Although this door should have opened to the roof of St. Barts, the labyrinth has led them into a chamber instead. Upon bursting through the door, the first thing that will hit Sherlock and Bradbury is a wave of heat radiating inside. Mist rushes out the door, darting between their feet like rats, but it doesn't seize them like the smoke back on the stairwell did. The rest swirls around inside the chamber, making it impossible to see what awaits them – not until they crossed the threshold.

Unlike the rest of the hospital, the temperature has swiftly turned humid and stifling, much like the climate found in the far-east. It gives the impression that the walls, crumbling Victorian architecture, are struggling to breathe under the strain. On closer observation, they will discover they are. They pulsate wildly in an unsettled rhythm; it's not unlike a heartbeat and is designed to unsettle visitors to the labyrinth.

Spread across the walls are scores of multi-coloured post-it notes, newspaper clippings, evaluation reports, and photographs of family, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, whose faces have been scratched out with thick black marker pen and scorched out in frenzied vengeance. They go on for as far as the eye can see and resemble veins in their erratic placement on the walls.

Hanging from the zeniths of this chamber are four chains, which are anchored down in the center of the room. Each one is coated in thick red rust and vanishes into the mist, which ripples across the floor like gentle waves from the source in the center of this chamber. The chains wavers slightly, as if pushed by a phantom breeze or pulled on by an unruly child, but they remain shackled and seem to serve no purpose than resembling some gruesome wind chimes.

And in the center of this organic chamber, sitting in a battered armchair, is John Watson. The grey mist pools from underneath his burgundy chair and a notebook computer rests, unused, on his lap. His fingers are steepled over the keyboard, but they don't move an inch. He seems completely lifeless until, sensing their arrival, his head snaps up like a marionette doll and his golden eyes smoulder with malicious intent under the brim of his ridiculous deerstalker hat.

"You made it all the way here." His voice filled with quiet awe, before his lips twist into a mockery of his friendly smile. "Just what people will expect from the hero of Reichenbach." His eyes flicker back down to the computer screen and he taps away on the keyboard.

"But like I said before, I'm busy writing up my case notes." So far, John hasn't even acknowledged Bradbury is here and flicks his wrist, waving them away dismissively. "Sooo... you can go back to the flat and wait until I'm finished."

The weight of the rifle and the kickback from firing it has worn Sherlock down as he and Bradbury came more heavily under fire. He may know how to use it, but he didn't have combat training like everyone else in the labyrinth, dead or alive. That burdening feeling doesn't diminish when he and Bradbury step out into the stifling heat.

Sherlock thought he might be glad to avoid St. Bart's roof, but as he takes in what John's mind has created, he wonders if it might have been preferable. The pictures of their Christmas party hang destroyed, along with newspaper clippings of their various escapades since John's blog took off. The breathing walls shake him; they are as inexplicable as many of the unnatural things he's adjusted to in this world, but it's entirely different when they originate from his best friend.

Mostly, he's angry with himself. All of his powers of observation, and he couldn't see all this resentment in John until it was presented before him in macabre, symbolic detail. Sherlock tears his scarf away from his neck to fight the heat and throws down the rifle to seem less hostile.

"John--" He pauses, seething. "You know better than to call me that." Sherlock cautiously steps forward. "And take that bloody hat off."

It's unsettling, seeing this, like he's intruding somewhere that he shouldn't be. He suspects, almost, that this isn't a place for him -- that the only reason he's here at all is because Sherlock is with him, and if there's anyone who can make sense of the bizarre imagery around them, it has to be him. He stays where he is, gun neither lowered nor raised, tension in every line of his body, but he says nothing.

Whatever happens next, it's between Sherlock and John. He's going to have to hope Sherlock's tougher than he looks, because he's pretty sure it's going to get ugly.

Unencumbered by the mood and atmosphere inside the chamber, John continues to type. Apart from the deerstalker from his network broadcast, he's still wearing the same clothes he'd left for work in that morning; a simple ensemble consisting of a burgundy cardigan, his favourite pair of jeans, and his Loake shoes. Nothing fancy or flashy... with John, it never was.

"Sherlock." His voice is sharp. When he finally looks up from the screen again, he presses an index finger against his pursed lips and waggles his brow. Slow, deliberate movements. "Manners." John shushes him and then resumes typing. One thing that hasn't been warped by this phenomenon is his excruciatingly slow working pace.

"Don't know why I bother, really. I've lived with you for nearly two years now... I really should know better." He licks his lips, eyes flicking back up to the detective for a brief moment. "But then again, you were dead for a few months. You tend to forget little things like that."

Edited 2013-02-21 19:26 (UTC)

To hell with manners. Why is John, or this facet of him, so calm? Sherlock still doesn't believe this is really his friend. The eyes betray him, everything does, even if he does look otherwise exactly as he did in the flat just a few hours before.

Even the complaining is off. It's not good natured enough, and rarely as patronizing. Then, of course, they get to the heart of the matter. The accusation that he could just simply forget what happened back at home sends a hot pang of anger through Sherlock, and he slams the laptop shut from behind.

"If you know me as well as I think you do, then you would know I will never forget what I did. Or why." His voice is almost hoarse, and he practically spits the words out. He looks back at Bradbury, and his tone scales down some. "Besides, I've brought you company. You're the one being rude."

His gaze snaps up when Sherlock draws attention to him, and he almost shakes his head, minutely. Not sure of how to convey what a shitty idea this was, he wishes he'd told Sherlock before coming here that if there was any talking to be done, Bradbury wasn't the guy to do it. He didn't know John that well; hell, even if he did, there wouldn't have been much point in bringing him here.

"Hey, John," he shifts uncomfortably, lowering his gun but not letting go.

"--you said you were workin' on case notes. Which case?" His head tips, unsure if this is the right direction to pursue, but maybe it will give Sherlock some better insight into how to deal with this.

John moves his hands out the way and cranes his neck to look up at Sherlock. Like he had been anticipating the reaction, he relishes it and his lips tug into a smile. With the inclination, the chains in the chamber suddenly become rigid and tense, and something shifts around in the smoke behind them.

He presses a finger against his lips again, shushing Sherlock, replying only when the chains relax again. "Rick! Sorry mate, I didn't see you over there." He greets the ex-marine with the same cheerful lilt. "I told you before, didn't I? The best case."

"I'm sure Bradbury doesn't want another rehash of the aluminum crutch, John." It comes out a little bitterly, and he more or less ignored Rick's obvious uncertainty about this move. He knows John doesn't think the fall of Moriarty and himself is the best cast. Perhaps the greatest, but not the best. That, and he hates being chided into silence, childish as it is to be thinking about that now.

Sherlock's attention goes to the chains when they move. The whole room seemed to be living, but is it directly connected to John? While the shadow is distracted, he moves to inspect them. All this symbolism-- were these chains holding the real John somewhere?

His hand tightens on his gun when the chains shift, gaze instinctively darting over to them for the briefest moment. He can't see where they're attached, where they lead to, but he almost thinks he can shoot them with his gun, if he had to. Break them.

Who knows what that might do, though. Instead, he keeps talking, uncertain if it will do much good.

"How much more do you have to write? Can't exactly get people to read it from in here."

"We both know which one crashed my website." John teases, but doesn't go into further detail. Sherlock will know which one he's alluding to. Whether it's a conscious attempt from John to spare his friend's hubris, it's hard to tell; he could also be saving it up for another time.

"Actually, you'll be surprised how good the Wi-Fi is here. But I don't know how to finish it..." Although John is distracted talking to Bradbury, the labyrinth isn't. It's aware, watching the detective as he wanders close to where the chains hang, and decides to act when it feels threatened.

Smoke swells across the floor in one fluid wave, forming into multiple, sentient hands, which grapple and seize Sherlock. They keep him rooted to spot while the chains swing out of his reach.

"Nosey." The shadow scolds him from his armchair. "I know you rarely take my advice, but this time? If I were you, I'd really give it a rest."

Edited 2013-02-24 11:48 (UTC)

Of course. Romance and intrigue always left people slobbering for more, but all of that couldn't be further from Sherlock's mind now. His phone has been dead since he walked through the door, and John is ribbing him about subjects he'd never normally broach. Everything is wrong, and his frustration grows minute by minute that he can't figure it out.

When the smoke constricts him, he lets out a shout that's more from anger than pain, though his arms crush into his sides as several of the hands wrap around him. Others crushingly grip his ankles, forcing him onto his knees while one gets a hold on his neck. It simply holds him in place for now. There's no wriggling free, and the shadows of this place, living on their own, simply won't let him in.

"Where is John," he growls, not bothering to make it even sound like a question. "You might be some Jungian display of him, but you're not him."

Bradbury doesn't wait for John -- or this part of John, or whatever it is -- to respond. Instead, barely are the words out of Sherlock's mouth when he brings his gun up, flicking the safety switch on one last time before he starts shooting at the chains hanging from the ceiling. They're large enough and his hands are steady enough that his shots land where they're aimed easily, supercharged bullets tearing through one chain, and then the other, but he has to stop at two, the bones of his hands already aching from the strain and feeling the heat of the metal even through his gloves, and he has to stop, gritting his teeth.

He doesn't know if that was a good idea. Actually, that was pretty fucking stupid, probably, but he was a pretty do first, think later kind of guy.

Concerned with keeping Sherlock away from the chains, the labyrinth doesn't have time to react to this new threat and seize Bradbury, not until the second chain is severed in a burst of fire and falls. They land in an unceremonious heap on the floor and, for one moment, panic flashes across the shadow's face.

Hands rise from the smoke and grab the ex-marine as something shifts in the smoke and the chains are pulled swiftly into the smoke. What follows is a rumbling growl, the remaining two chains becoming tense once again, and an arc sweeps through the smoke like a blade, catching the papers on the wall. It sends them scattering across the chamber and John finally climbs to his feet.

"That wasn't a good idea." He links his hands behind his back and wets his lips. The panic on his face is replaced with a grave expression, as he approaches Bradbury at his own pace and crouches in front of him. "I'll be taking that from you. You know... for your own safety."

Edited (how do i words) 2013-02-25 11:40 (UTC)

The sudden wind cuts against Sherlock's cheek as he struggles in the grasp of the sentient smoke. He isn't sure if he wants to shout at Bradbury for actually doing something incidentally brilliant or for being an idiot. At least he was right about the chains having something to do with the shadow's power, but now what could be done about it?

That and this bastard wearing John's face continued to dance around his questions and ignore him. Sherlock's blood is coming to a right simmer, but he refuses to lose his head. As the shadow approaches Bradbury, Sherlock falls forward trying to stop it. This is between himself and John; if someone else suffered for it, even he'd feel the guilt. His mind works like lightning. If the shadow got a hold of that gun, things were not going to end well.

"I'm still waiting to hear your ideas for the ending, John." His voice is calmer now, if not a little strained due to the hand around his neck. He pointedly addresses it by his friend's name. Maybe then it'd pay attention. "About how you'll reveal to the whole world that you think I'm a fraud."

Edited 2013-02-26 00:29 (UTC)

Bradbury has no idea what the fuck just happened, admittedly, but judging by the reaction it provokes, it's not insignificant. There's a connection here -- for some reason, it's afraid, and whether that fear is a good thing or a bad one, Bradbury can't say, but maybe it will keep it from beating around the bush any further.

Shadows grab him before he can raise his gun again, and he swears as he's yanked down by smoke and shadow, struggling to get his hand free. It takes effort, but he manages not to drop it, clinging onto the still-overheated metal with a deathgrip. Should John try to take the gun from his grasp, he'll find the metal nearly searing on bare skin; then again, Bradbury isn't sure human rules even apply to it anymore.

Sherlock's intervention buys him a little time, though, and he's silent, working on freeing himself while the other man speaks.

John does reach for his weapon, but draws his hand back when Sherlock calls him over. He throws one last look at Bradbury as he struggles with the gun in his hand, then heaves a dramatic sigh and walks back over to the detective. He stops next to the writhing detective, tilting his head at the sight, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"You've changed your tune. But I'm not really John, am I? Not according to you. You're half right, but you haven't quite figured it out yet. The lads at Scotland Yard would have a right laugh about this... Sherlock Holmes: baffled again!"

He crouches down and seizes the detective by his lapels, dragging him back up into a more comfortable seating position, and then sits down opposite him. The chains rattle behind him, but John's attention is focused solely on Sherlock and nothing else.

"But I don't know where you get off saying that. I'll never think you're a fraud. Ever." The emphasis carries a hiss, before he clears his throat and rolls his shoulders back. "Everything I've blogged about has always been the truth... well, almost all of it." His expression becomes unreadable and he pulls down the deerstalker, covering his golden eyes underneath the brim of the hat.

"That bit about the witness protection scheme wasn't my idea. I just went along with it, because what else was I supposed to do? At the end of the day, that's all I really amount to... cleaning up after you lot, doing damage control, babysitting... God, anyone in their right mind would get sick of it."

He flicks up the brim with his thumb and flashes a smile at his friend. "Which ending would you pick, Sherlock? The one where John dies slowly of a broken heart, or one where his life ends—" He snaps his fingers and a single gunshot rings in the chamber, "—just like this? Quick and painless."

He straightens up again and wiggles his dominant hand, "Better hurry up, because I'm dying over there."

Sherlock recoils at the shadow's grip, but there's little he can do about it. At least it finally opens up, and Sherlock stops struggling as it speaks. He always wondered if John ever doubted him, but at the end of everything, he knew that was impossible. However, the hiss doesn't suit John, and there's a sudden fear that strikes Sherlock. Not of that voice, even if it's shocking that John can actually be intimidating for once.

Through every step of this labyrinth, Sherlock progressed with the unquestioned intention of bringing John out of it. Now that the shadow is finally explaining itself, revealing how much of John he actually is, Sherlock awakens to the possibility of this thing swallowing his friend. Of never getting John back from this. It's a cold slap inside his stomach that makes him want to be sick, but he keeps his poker face.

How hypocritical, he thinks. How selfish, after what he's done. In the end, though, he doesn't care. John is more than the man cleaning up the destruction in his wake, and he must know that. Even if he doubts it sometimes, he has to know that.

Urgency surges in him when the gunshot sounds, his head whipping to look at Bradbury. No, not free yet. The implication quickly sinks in and Sherlock also tries to stand.

"Where is he?" he demands, eyes flicking between the remaining chains and the shadow. He wouldn't stoop to pick either of those things. The John he knows is stronger than that.

Bradbury's not paying attention to what's going on, at least not until he hears the sound of a gunshot, and his head snaps up, eyes wide as he tries to find the source of it. No dice, though -- if there's another gun somewhere else in the room, he can't find it.

Which leaves him to the task of trying to tear free of the hands clutching at his clothes, and either because the shadow is distracted or the adrenalin gets his heart racing, but he manages (with the sound of tearing cloth, at that) to get his arm up and free, and he lifts it to shoot at the nearest chain, and then the other. The first chain shatters when the bullet tears through it, but the second shot goes awry, the recoil of the first shot making his arm ache too much to hold it steady. The second bullet nicks a link, but doesn't quite tear through it; instead, the remaining forces acting on it start pulling it apart, metal coming undone.

For a split second, he wonders if this is the right thing to do. If he might be unleashing something worse than any of them can handle.

Either way, it's too late, because the last chain snaps apart.

John smiles sadly at Sherlock as the final chain snaps. The hands release them to retreat back to the center of the room. It swirls there angrily, crackling with energy, until something begins to emerge. Layers peel back, revealing an abnormally large wolf. Its coat is matted with thick grey arsenic fur and the exposed areas of skin, most notably around its chest and left shoulder, are withered and burned a tan brown.

The beast shuffles through the smoke with uncertainty, the severed chains trailing behind it, with a canine growl roiling in its throat. Each chain had been looped around its legs and the dried blood splattered around the ligature marks show how much it struggled to free itself before Bradbury shot them down. A large growth clings to where his heart should lay and blood drips intermittently from a supposedly open wound.

It doesn't attack. No, it's afraid. Arching its back and bowing his head, its stormy blue eyes dart around the chamber, assessing the inhabitants and desperately searching for an escape. The shadow walks over and the wolf snarls, lips twitching with stress, but appears to settle when John brushes his fingers over its fur without a trace of fear.

"Reverse psychology... works all the time." John leans in and whispers to the wolf. "It's alright. You know what you have to do. We've done it before, right?"

Sherlock falls to the ground again when the smoke releases him, but he scrambles up like a shot, holding his neck. Getting rid of the chains is clearly linked to the real John, but like Bradbury, he's not sure if it's in a good or a bad way.

Then the wolf emerges, and Sherlock feels the same surge of shock he did out in the Baskerville moors. However, he knows this isn't a hallucination caused by a fear toxin. Unlike the hound, the wolf is taller than either him or Rick, and it isn't acting aggressively. No, its movements are rather defensive and limping. It all starts to piece together: the symbolism of the wounds, the shape itself, and the eyes Sherlock can't mistake for anyone else's.

"John-- it's--" Panic sweeps over him and Sherlock turns urgently to Bradbury. "Don't shoot it!" he bellows. It would stop the labyrinth, but it would also kill John, in whatever form he'd been forced to take.

Bradbury can't even shoot it if he tries. With the recoil of the gun numbing his fingers, he finally drops his weapon, gritting his teeth as he holds his own wrist to try to stop his own hand from shaking. Though he's been released by the shadows, he's still down in a crouch, beside his gun on the floor, and he looks up at Sherlock, wincing.

He doesn't seem surprised to see a wolf here, in the middle of all places, nor to hear Sherlock yell at him not to injure it. He's still carrying the wounds of the claws of -- whatever it was Mitch had turned into, aching as he forces himself to his feet.

"John." His voice is loud, steady in a way that doesn't betray the conflict and uncertainty he's feeling right now. He's not quite sure if he's calling for the thing's attention or simply seeing if it will respond. He's at least visibly unarmed now, though his fingers twitch reflexively at his sides. He's watching the tableau warily, wondering if he'll have to run. If he does, at least his powers are the last ace up his sleeve.

"Quit fucking around and come home."

Maybe he could have said that better.

Edited 2013-02-27 03:25 (UTC)

Apart from his ears perking up and eyes looking between Sherlock and Bradbury, John doesn't react or move in the slightest. The shadow pokes his head and pulls a face at the marine.

"Why would I want to come home?" He asks Bradbury in utter sincerity, keeping his hand on the wolf. Its pelts lift when the shadow raises its own voice and takes on a darker tone. "This is my universe. No more cleaning up an alcoholic sister, or searching a former drug addict's sock drawer, or getting kidnapped for impromptu meetings."

Dark blood pours from the wound on the wolf's chest and it claws at the floor. Sparks fly as it tears through the crumbling architecture composing the surface and reveals a pocket of grey sky underneath.

"No, I think I'll stay here."

"Eloquent," Sherlock can't help but snap towards Bradbury. It helps take the edge off; it keeps him from running forward and beating the shadow to a powder. The whole time, his eyes stay on the two forms of what might both be John. To act like he didn't know John is ever resentful of things in his life would be absolutely foolish. Harry was a barely functioning mess, and Mycroft puts him up to insurmountable things simply because the elder Holmes can't find it in himself to act as a brother to Sherlock, not openly.

And here, John doesn't have to deal with Sherlock at all. He looks down the whole, and the sky seems infinite. Neither Rossum or St. Bart's are anywhere in sight. It's still easier than looking the wolf in the eye as it nervously burrows away.

"That's what girlfriends' sofas are for, aren't they?" It's a joke, but Sherlock sounds anything but amused. He tries to crack a smirk, but he can't hide the sadness here like he could in reality. "You'll die if you stay here. I don't care if you hate me, but you can't want that." He shakes his head, standing straighter. If the shadow wanted to keep John here, he'd have to kill him first.

"You don't actually believe you're just a cleaner, do you?" The brief sight of sorrow is replaced with his calm mask again. "A valet wouldn't find the Bruce-Partington plans."

"I never really found them though, did I? Not really." John retorts, dropping his hand to his side as he steps away from the wolf and approaches Sherlock. He makes sure to stay out of arm's reach of the detective and crosses his arms over his chest.

"You watched me the whole time. You follow me around because no one else wants to put up with a nutter like you." The shadow chuckles and the wolf slashes the air heavily with its tails, sending more documents and photographs into the air.

"But I'm crazy too, aren't I? That's why we're best friends."

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