Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deductives) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2013-06-16 12:00 am
deductives) wrote in capeandcowllogs2013-06-16 12:00 am
Let's go for a drive somewhere
WHO: Sherlock and his gallant rescuers!
WHERE: An abandoned house on the outskirts of the Bronx
WHEN: At whatever point on Thursday the group is ready to intervene
WARNINGS: Violence and the like.
SUMMARY: Sherlock has been captured by Red Death members posing as the Phantasm. John has organized a group to get him back.
FORMAT: I'LL START OFF WITH LONG WINDED PROSE and you guys can take it from there
It had been a stupid mistake. Sherlock blamed himself, really. Whenever he started patrolling with someone different in the Phantasm, he made a point of figuring out their true identities and intentions, but this group beat him at his own game, something that bruised his pride almost as much as his ribs. When he thought he left them, he disappeared into an alley and prepared to walk the shadows beneath them, he felt what must have been a truck slam into him, knocking his arm right out of the shadows again and sending him hard into the opposite wall.
He heard the crack of his own head against the brick, and crumpled into a heap on the ground. As he fought for consciousness, he picked up bits of their conversation.
"Did they send him without telling us?"
"Just a rogue meta--"
"No imPort ID--"
"We can use this."
Sherlock also managed to gather that it was a human fist that had done this to him. These people had powers. Reasoning kept him from slipping off completely. These people weren't imPorts. He didn't recognize them or their voices, and had clearly been in this world long enough to adapt, so they weren't new arrivals he hadn't seen yet. Obviously they weren't really Phantasm--- who had sent them? What were they trying to do? Most importantly, how could they have powers?
It became clearer as he felt himself being transported. The Red Death; he remembered hearing about them. Mysterious metas trying to do the same thing as Phantasm, but on a smaller scale. Spying on their rivals, were they? The reasons as to why swirl around in Sherlock's muddled brain, and the next thing he realized, he was tied in a chair and being broadcast to the world. The beatings began to blend together; long periods of pain blossoming over different areas of his body followed by short slips of respite.
During those, he could tell he was somewhere just outside the City, by the smell of the air and the distance of the sound of traffic. He could also tell that he had at least two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and barely a single surface on him not starting to swell with bruises. As time went on he started to become more lucid. They seemed to realize they'd given him a concussion and were trying to keep him from slipping under. They questioned him on his motives, who he was, who sent him-- but he didn't say a word. They already intended to kill him, and they weren't experts at torture, as far as he was concerned. He'd manage.
Escape should have been simple. A quick slip through the ropes and into the shadows of the room and he'd be free, but of course he noticed the black box kept in the corner of the room, emblazoned with a red symbol. So that was their game. Phantasm represented a native population that admired imPorts-- obviously Vulcanus couldn't have that.
As the hours slide on and the broadcasts continue, Sherlock hopes John doesn't come for him. He had no way of knowing what lie in wait here, and unless he had help, or even if he did, he didn't want his friend falling into the same trap. In spite of this, he finds himself waiting for someone to burst into the building, and he knows John will look for him. It's more reassuring than he wants it to be, even if John will give him hell once this is all over. He almost laughs at that thought. Maybe it would be to John's advantage that a bunch of brutes had very little on the short temper of a medical man on a mission.
WHERE: An abandoned house on the outskirts of the Bronx
WHEN: At whatever point on Thursday the group is ready to intervene
WARNINGS: Violence and the like.
SUMMARY: Sherlock has been captured by Red Death members posing as the Phantasm. John has organized a group to get him back.
FORMAT: I'LL START OFF WITH LONG WINDED PROSE and you guys can take it from there
It had been a stupid mistake. Sherlock blamed himself, really. Whenever he started patrolling with someone different in the Phantasm, he made a point of figuring out their true identities and intentions, but this group beat him at his own game, something that bruised his pride almost as much as his ribs. When he thought he left them, he disappeared into an alley and prepared to walk the shadows beneath them, he felt what must have been a truck slam into him, knocking his arm right out of the shadows again and sending him hard into the opposite wall.
He heard the crack of his own head against the brick, and crumpled into a heap on the ground. As he fought for consciousness, he picked up bits of their conversation.
"Did they send him without telling us?"
"Just a rogue meta--"
"No imPort ID--"
"We can use this."
Sherlock also managed to gather that it was a human fist that had done this to him. These people had powers. Reasoning kept him from slipping off completely. These people weren't imPorts. He didn't recognize them or their voices, and had clearly been in this world long enough to adapt, so they weren't new arrivals he hadn't seen yet. Obviously they weren't really Phantasm--- who had sent them? What were they trying to do? Most importantly, how could they have powers?
It became clearer as he felt himself being transported. The Red Death; he remembered hearing about them. Mysterious metas trying to do the same thing as Phantasm, but on a smaller scale. Spying on their rivals, were they? The reasons as to why swirl around in Sherlock's muddled brain, and the next thing he realized, he was tied in a chair and being broadcast to the world. The beatings began to blend together; long periods of pain blossoming over different areas of his body followed by short slips of respite.
During those, he could tell he was somewhere just outside the City, by the smell of the air and the distance of the sound of traffic. He could also tell that he had at least two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and barely a single surface on him not starting to swell with bruises. As time went on he started to become more lucid. They seemed to realize they'd given him a concussion and were trying to keep him from slipping under. They questioned him on his motives, who he was, who sent him-- but he didn't say a word. They already intended to kill him, and they weren't experts at torture, as far as he was concerned. He'd manage.
Escape should have been simple. A quick slip through the ropes and into the shadows of the room and he'd be free, but of course he noticed the black box kept in the corner of the room, emblazoned with a red symbol. So that was their game. Phantasm represented a native population that admired imPorts-- obviously Vulcanus couldn't have that.
As the hours slide on and the broadcasts continue, Sherlock hopes John doesn't come for him. He had no way of knowing what lie in wait here, and unless he had help, or even if he did, he didn't want his friend falling into the same trap. In spite of this, he finds himself waiting for someone to burst into the building, and he knows John will look for him. It's more reassuring than he wants it to be, even if John will give him hell once this is all over. He almost laughs at that thought. Maybe it would be to John's advantage that a bunch of brutes had very little on the short temper of a medical man on a mission.