capeandcowllogs | You will never reap of any seed

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You will never reap of any seed

WHO: THE SHADE and SHERLOCK HOLMES
WHERE: Some classy tea shoppe
WHEN: Uhhh the evening of the third
WARNINGS: classy fucking bastards
SUMMARY: Shade and Sherlock need to catch up after Sherlock "killed" him
FORMAT: Tagger's choice!

It had been a several weeks, since they last spoke. The Shade had spent only a few hours regenerating from the dark slick that he'd dissipated into when Sherlock had ostensibly killed him in front of the other members of Phantasm. Sherlock had asked him to take a dive, but he was cure he hadn't imagined that he would go that far. But the Shade did love his dramatics. In fact, he thrived on them. He'd forgotten how much fun it was, when everyone played by the rules, and knew how to fight a real supervillain without debasing them.

That had been the issue with the modern world. Nobody really respected each other.

The Shade sighed almost longingly, crossing an ankle over his knee, as he waited for the other man to arrive. He hadn't even ordered, in a show of politeness. The only thing that had been brought to the table was the complimentary water. Hat off, he tapped a finger on the brim, resting on the table while he waited.

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Though he'd never admit it, Sherlock appreciated dramatics just as much, though in his own unique way. The supposed death of the Shade had been part of them, though it worked far better than he'd even begun to imagine.

He'd checked in to make sure the Shade wasn't really dead a few days after their performance, but business and typical City madness had kept him from meeting with his friend since then. He agreed to the tea shop, though he doubted their brews would be of much use to him, because it was secluded enough, and it kept him from buying milk for at least another day. There's much to discuss, even if his injuries had all been healed in New Vesuvius. He almost wished he still had them, though, rather than having that experience.

The Shade was always easy to spot, like a blot of ink spilled on light parchment, so Sherlock wordlessly, as always, slipped into the waiting sit across from him.

Sherlock himself was not one to fade into the background, and the Shade did not necessarily perk up when he arrived, but he certainly took notice, his head tipping slightly to his friend, and what an odd term that was. Of course, by the Shade's standards, calling Sherlock Holmes friend was no odder than perhaps Oscar Wilde or Charles Dickens.

A fictional man who fit the criteria of many of Shade's previous friends. Interesting, was generally the qualification he had. The Shade was so easily bored these days.

He waved a hand to Sherlock, indicating the seat even as he sat. Invitation given while it was taken, perhaps. He was rarely offended when his polite sensibilities were in conflict with the modern world. It was merely a sign of the changes over time. He reveled in them.

"Mr. Holmes, it's a pleasure to see you again, and you look quite well," he remarked. He remembered how he'd looked, on the network, even if he hadn't made a comment on it.

Boredom was a shared trait between the two men, and perhaps one of the reasons they seemed to get along. Fashionable ennui blended from different time periods was often their keynote, though Sherlock's was more related to murders, conspiracy, and the generally bizarre.

As for manners, unless they worked to his advantage, Sherlock tried not to use them casually. Social niceties often wasted time and gained little. Being brought up in an upper class household only made Sherlock resent them.

"Not by my design," he replied airily, avoiding eye contact. It was an unconscious move he developed while having a black eye, and he hadn't quite broken the habit yet. "But I see you look a bit more put together than you were before."

His lips turned slightly upward. What a terrible joke.

"Well, I do try," he said lightly, lifting a hand to indicate they were ready for tea. They had been here before, and the waitstaff had learned a thing or two about men like Shade and Sherlock. "Did you want anything to eat?" he asked, head tipping slightly toward the waitstaff, who was starting to scurry, and get things together.

Although, he did rather look much better. It sometimes took the Shade a while to put himself back together. Occasionally, a little longer than most. This time, in a new world, it had taken him a bit, figuring out how his body reacted to the new scenery.

Although now, immortal and perfect, he looked every part the posh victorian he'd always been. "I must say, it's hardly something to be too concerned with. I would think it would be a boon, hm? No longer showing any damage?"

Sherlock shook his head. Food was always the last thing on his mind, especially when there was so much more interesting things to occupy it. A meeting with the Shade was such a thing, and like most of the people who spend any time with Sherlock, he'd probably never seen the detective eat.

And again, food is easily put out of his mind when Shade brings up the incident with the Red Death. Not in blunt terms, but if Sherlock couldn't read that sort of a cue, his faith in his ego wouldn't be so aptly placed. He shifts in his seat, almost uncomfortably, but a smirk crosses his face.

"So you do know how to operate electronics. I hope you voted for my least painful death."

"Of course I did. I would hate to see you suffer. I thought it would go badly, if I were to intervene. In case my presence is needed again against our friends."

The waitress brought their tea, and finger foods for the Shade. She knew exactly what he liked by now, and he thanked her with a look over his dark sunglasses. He indicated the plate to Sherlock, offering it, if he so chose. He was nothing if not magnanimous.

"But tell me how the rest of the recent time has been? I would be remiss if not to ask if you were taken like the rest of them."

He hadn't really given too much introspection towards June as a whole, but now that he did, Sherlock realized how awful it had really been. Exciting in some ways, of course, but utterly derailing in others.

"To New Vesuvius? I did have the pleasure, yes." His sarcasm was almost as dark as the tea that blossomed in his cup as he poured it out and added perhaps too much sugar.

"Lachesis seems to have a funny way of offering us life lessons."

"She does, doesn't she?" he asked, a little lightly. He idly swirled a spoon at his tea, even while he poured it. He didn't need to let the heat disperse, but he did so anyway. Little things that made him feel human, little habits. Things that made him appear human.

He waved a hand, idly. "I feel rather pleased that I didn't have to grace such a place. I believe it may have been too much for me. I wouldn't have fared well in that sort of environment. I heard they robbed you of your autonomy, did they not?"

Sherlock watched the Shade's ministrations, and not idly. It was no small wonder he could play parts so well-- everything he did was playing at something, in a way. It wasn't a similarity he expected to have with him.

"Autonomy, dignity, skivvies. The list could go on." The novelty of his eyepatch had worn thin rather quickly, and even while he did keep his clothes, they were far too extravagant for his tastes.

"All of it just as a method of telling us to be grateful."

"Ah, yes. Make things so unlikeable, that when you are given a small measure of kindness, it looks like the greatest gift in the world," he nodded, slowly.

If, perhaps, with a touch of solemnity. Certainly, he had no doubts his powers would see him through, after all, he was the Shade, he was immortal. There were few ways to entirely end him, and none were a guarantee, but he figured a world like that, they wouldn't be able to actually contain him.

"I gather, of course, that the population didn't take well to that? They don't seem the type to take such an experience sitting down."

"It ties in with Vulcanus. We're her able little soldiers. The question is why."

He still had the damaged black box the Red Death used against him. John had wrecked it in a rage during Sherlock's rescue, but he'd retained the pieces for research. It was beginning to seem like Vulcanus knew more about the Porter then anyone else, and his desire to get to the bottom of the matter was only growing. As for New Vesuvius, the visit made him certain finding out sooner rather than later would benefit more than just his need to know the truth.

"Oh no," Sherlock replied, the undercurrent of bitterness barely disguised in his light tone. "They were quite happy to have a force of unpaid labor and entertainment back. It would probably be boring otherwise in a utopia if there wasn't cruelty somewhere."

"It's funny how they got so close, and yet in one fell swoop, they took it so far from perfection, hm?" he asked, his eyebrows quirking. Finally, the tea seemed cool enough, and he took a long drink. To the side were his finger foods, and the Shade took upon them like the buzzard he was.

He shook his head, disappointed.

"It happens, I'm afraid. The idea is pleasant, but it's never truly going to be achieved. Humanity doesn't really quite work like that, as I'm sure you know."

Sherlock, although he'd been stirring his tea for about a minute straight, had almost entirely forgotten about it. He took a small sip and raised his eyebrows briefly.

"Well, they clearly aren't as well versed in Greek mythology as they think." The names of the Fates had been plaguing him. There were three, so what was in store for them all next time this happened?

"If it did, I'd be out of a job." Sherlock smirked momentarily and set his cup down again. A man could be humble, but humanity thrived on hubris. He simply just didn't have the right to talk about it.

"Well, well, and what of Greek mythology did they miss?" he asked it cautiously. Shade, of course, was well versed in enough mythology that he really could simply pull from his hat what Sherlock referenced. The machine, they called her Lachesis, and from there it was easy enough to divine where this would go.

Still, he smiled, although it was somewhat tight, perhaps a touch grim in nature, considering the subject that they discussed.

"Are we talking of our dear benefactor, or is there someone new coming to play?"

"You've already made the Icarus connection." He'd go on, but he wasn't much for discussing falling with people.

"But this alternate City had its own Porter, named Clotho. More benevolent in nature, and therefore more susceptible to the influence of the natives and the reason for imPort oppression. She was entirely under human control." Sherlock drummed his fingers against his cup apprehensively. "There are three Fates. Lachesis even called Clotho her sister. Logic follows that the eldest is out there somewhere."

If Clotho was subservient and Lachesis was independent, did that mean an Atropos would be the dominant force in her world? And if so, when was this City going to see those consequences?

Of course the Shade had, he was, in particular, a very well-read individual. Then again, when you were friends with Charles Dickens and Oscar Wilde in previous days, you could hardly be expected to be an imbecile.

"It's certainly possible," he mentioned, eyebrows rising over the sunglasses, before reaching out to take a bit of the finger foods he'd ordered, taking a small bite, his smile spreading across his face. He did like the food here.

Still, after a moment, he set it aside, wiping his fingers on a cloth napkin.

"I'm certain there's one out there. Why would you make two, but give them the name of a trio. It's not a matter of assumption at this point. I'll be curious to see how and when we see her. After all, imports have been here for four years, and we've just now been shown the second sibling? Who's to say that Atropos is out there, and doesn't want to meet us?"

He shook his head, taking another sip of his tea. "They call her the inflexible one, the one who cuts the strings. Perhaps she is the reason we don't experience death."

Sherlock shook his head. A factless theory, so he couldn't entertain it.

"Lachesis' namesake metes out the length of life, but as far as I can tell, she has no control over how we live or die, in the literal sense. It would seem the names are a quirk of interdimensional coincidence. For all we know, there is a threefold porter named after the norns in a universe where Scandinavia is the world's ruling region."

That had a few unfortunate historical connotations, but with any luck they'd never come up. Sherlock sipped his tea with an air of annoyance before setting the cup down again with a sharp clack against his saucer.

"The quantum sciences were never my favored branch." He chewed at the inside of his lip for a moment. "There is evidence to support at least an Atropos existing, yes. We can only hope she puts off her introduction for another four years."

Edited 2013-07-24 02:53 (UTC)

"True, true. It's all speculation, but I suppose you could say I'm more of the creative sort, than the scientific sort. Mind, I'm more than willing to change my opinion, but I enjoy considering what could be, up until the moment it happens," he said it lightly, but still watching Sherlock.

IT was a fair enough of a thought. Perhaps there were the norns out there as well, and other spinsters and those who looked over life and death.

People who really didn't have control over his life, and never had. He was immortal, and it always gave him something of an odd perspective. He didn't feel that press, that fear of death, or much of anything.

It made him appear more relaxed, even if he was anything but. Even things like the porters, well, it made him concerned, worried. Someone who had so much power over him, he disliked the thought. Mostly because he'd always had such control over himself.

He shook his head.

"I should say, it's difficult that there aren't many experts in interdimensional travel, hm?"

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