snowblindrpg | [log] idkmybffjohn [closed]

[It does take a long moment for the door to actually open as John struggles with the handle, using his elbows to grasp and turn with. He's not sure if he'll be the first one here, but he hopes he doesn't have too long to wait given the description for this place in Natasha's guide. Well, and just given the state of the place outside. Picking his way over the rubble had been unpleasant.

The sight of a tall, pale figure coming out at him once the door's opened gives the doctor a start, but when he sees who it actually is, hears the other man's voice, the surprise and suspicion melts away.]

Sherlock.

[There's relief, pure and simple in those two syllables. He's wearing a pack, his hands don't work, but his friend is there, real and alive. John doesn't wait to take off his pack, just wraps his arms around the other man's neck and pulls him down into a hug. That, at least, is something he doesn't need hands for.]

Edited 2016-10-19 02:39 (UTC)

[The hug takes him completely by surprise. His own hand was out ready to clap John on the shoulder, so he's caught well and truly in the tight embrace. He's still for a moment, before his arms close around John's back in return. Hugging isn't really his thing, but he can make an exception now, he is very relieved to see his friend, after all.

He pulls back after a second or two and looks down at John critically, cataloguing everything about him in a snapshot that lasts a heartbeat.]

It's good to see you.

[Quiet, simple, and then moving quickly on to something much easier.]

Sit down and give me your hand. Either one.

[The feel of a real, solid person here almost makes him want to cling longer. But John's well aware that his friend isn't much for displays of physical affection. Honestly, he doesn't go in for anything that demonstrative most days, either. It needed to be done, though.

The doctor steps back and to the side so that he can crouch and shrug his pack off his shoulders. They're going to need to keep the door open for any light, really. They've certainly picked a spot for all of this. Once that's done, John sits properly and offers Sherlock his left hand. It's currently covered in a magenta mitten with dark pink polka dots. Beggars can't be choosers in Norfinbury.]

There hasn't been any change in condition for the past three days.

[Sherlock pulls the mitten off and sets it aside, before he begins to firmly bend and flex each of John's fingers in turn. Not exactly roughly, but not very gently either. He doesn't feel any abnormalities as he's doing it, there's nothing to indicate any nerve damage or reason for the paralysis.

Perhaps it is psychosomatic, much as his limp had been. He expects a 'death price' and so he has inflicted one on himself. It would be just like John to inflict something this damaging on himself. Fool that he is.

He nods, jaw just a little tighter than usual. Why does he feel as though he is about to cry? He's Sherlock Holmes, damn it! Get hold of yourself, man.]

[Psychosomatic symptoms have crossed John's mind more than once in recent days, especially with his leg hurting off and on, pain flaring up in his most frustrated and stressed moments. He's been taking aspirin for that, well aware it amounts to a placebo, but it... helps. A bit, perhaps.

He watches Sherlock and pulls a bit of a face as his fingers are bent and moved. John can feel it, but try as he might, his brain isn't cooperating to make him mimic the movements on his own.]

It-it's only meant to last a few days. [There's an edge of concern in his voice.] Alfie, when he died, he couldn't talk, but it was only for a day. He was blind for about three days the second time. [There's a pause as he notes the expression on Sherlock's face.] Are you all right?

[He's no doubt that it will only last a few days. It must be psychosomatic and therefore John's brain will convince him that he's miraculously healed in a few short days. He estimates five for John.

The pads of his fingers dig hard into John's palm at several spots and then move back to flexing the fingers again, though he's not actually looking at the hand as he does so.]

Of course I am.

[There's a warning note in his voice not to pursue that. Much easier to deflect.]

Why have you not told me the anomaly resembled Fiona?

[This is beginning to feel more like a hand massage than an examination, and while that's nice, it's more than a little awkward. He'll give it a bit longer before he pulls his hand away. He's about to press the point that Sherlock doesn't seem all right at all right at all. The other man's question startles that line of thinking out of his head.]

How...?

[He's used to Sherlock being on his game, but that's perceptive even for the consulting detective. John searches for an explanation.]

Who told... did Clint tell you?

[Bucky mentioned Clint calling Sherlock.]

Nobody told me.

[His voice just gains more of an edge, the same sort of unhinged quality it had possessed when he spat deductions at John after seeing the hound. But more so, so much more.]

He gave me a base description of the anomaly, next to useless in true detail. You have been silent on the matter, unusual unless the anomaly were to mean something specific to you. I discounted all possibilities from home, as any threats of that nature would be ones you would share with me. Any threats from here would have a similar outcome, meaning the anomaly must have held sentimental attachment. It wasn't too far a leap from there to recall that you had recently lost the object of your affections.

[When he finishes talking, he cuts off with an abrupt click of his teeth when his mouth snaps shut, and his nostrils flare with the force of his breathing.

His fingers have moved into the territory of rough now, though he doesn't realise it, bending John's fingers back and forth with harsh snapping movements.]

[He's beginning to wonder what Sherlock's seen in the last few days that's shaken him up this much. John's death? It would be very nice for his ego if that were the case, but Sherlock's been adamant with his rationalizations for why deaths and revivals happen. When the other man starts to get rough, John frowns. When he bends one of the doctor's fingers to a very painful point, that's about it.]

Sherlock.

[John jerks his hand away and holds it close to his chest, curling his fingers in.]

That hurts. What's... what's... [He trails off as he looks down at his hand. He pulls it away from his chest and uncurls his fingers, flexes them again a few more times. He tries his other hand. It works, as well.

Sherlock's still in trouble, but his hands work again. He wants to grab something--everything. He starts with his best friend's wrist.]

What's happened to you? There's something wrong.

Edited 2016-10-20 16:59 (UTC)

[Part of him is relieved.

Though he was certain that the symptoms were psychosomatic and would be alleviated in a few days, to see John moving his fingers again is certainly a good thing. Perhaps there's even a part of him that feels self congratulatory, as if he cured the paralysis by snapping John out of it with a little pain, even if pain hadn't been his intent to begin with.

But that's subsumed by the question and the sheer panic that follows it. He has to work to quash it down lest it bubble out of him as a scream, he's been working very hard not to think about Davesprite and what he's seen in person over the last few days, not to mention the implications when it came to if John had actually died.

He snatches his wrist away.]

Nothing has happened to me.

[He should stop there, but his tongue always runs away with him when he's scared.]

Just because you are afraid of facing the reality of your dead lover returning to stalk you, don't project that onto me in order to give yourself a distraction.

[John's gaze narrows.]

You met one of the non-humans in-person.

[Or an anomaly, but Sherlock likely would have mentioned an anomaly, and he's been dismissive of them as illusions.]

Sherlock. [His tone is firm.] I told you this isn't like the Hound. You can still trust your own mind. This place just has different rules.

[Yes, let's just deflect from Sherlock's cruel words. That's the ideal solution for not dealing with his own issues.]

[There's a tiny widening of his eyes in fear that says John has hit the nail on the head, before he schools his expression with fierce determination. He can't quite stop the tremble to his hands, which are now on his lap, or the hitch to his breathing.]

I told you, I'm fine.

[It's a vehement hiss, he can't not be fine.]

I know I can trust my own mind, I am far more cognisant of my mental faculties than you will ever be, and I am fine!

You're not fine. So talk to me. What did you see? What are your theories for it?

Walk me through it. I'm an idiot.

You're not an idiot.

[That's possibly the greatest glaring clue that he is not doing too well. He does not usually compliment John out loud, although he would argue that he often thinks the compliments when they're deserved and it's hardly his fault that they are rarely vocalised.

His hands twist in his lap. He feels as though there's a pressure bubble rising in his chest, blocking his throat.]

But perhaps you're also not real, it seems I've gone stark raving mad. [His words are too fast.] Mycroft is doubtless even now watching me from the other side of a window into a padded cell, gloating.

[Well, thank Christ Sherlock wasn't here even a few days earlier for those Prophet eyes and the static that made everyone feel like they were the only people there, that they were the only ones who were real. It's bad enough as is with some of the others, John can't have Sherlock thinking he's fake, too.]

What would convince you that I'm real? You've felt me, you've seen me, you've heard me.

[By contrast, John's words are slow, measured and level.]

There's something I've heard other people talk about here called the many-worlds interpretation. D'you know what that is? It might be a place to work from to understand this place without just assuming it's all fake.

[He hates that by twisting his hands together in his lap, he can feel for himself how much they're shaking. This is the Hound but so much worse, there's no easy explanation of gas and stimulus here. He wrenches his fingers apart and drags the tablet out of his pocket to start fiddling with that instead, just giving him something to do.]

Of course I know the many-worlds interpretation; it's the theory that every possibility gives branch to a whole new universe where that possibility is played out, which then has a ripple effect and changes the future. Everything from the mundane of choosing red socks instead of blue, for which a universe might well be all but identical, to the very arrangement of atoms during the big bang and the order of evolution.

[He's still talking too fast, refusing to make eye contact. It's all spilling over now that John is here, just as it did when he confessed about the fear after seeing the monstrous beast near Baskerville.]

But it isn't real, John, it's just a theory and not a very well substantiated one. Nobody has any evidence for it, it's only embraced by foolish new-age scientists to give a new angle to the boring existential quandaries. If such a theory was real and, therefore, all possibilities were in fact definites, then one or more reality would have the technology to pull people from other times and worlds. But the possibility of being chosen by that world, and then that I might survive the trip, and then that I would find another person who I recognised after such a journey, is practically infinite.

[He can't stop talking now, it's just coming out like a flood of fear.]

But, you see, there are many more likely possibilities. I have gone mad and this is all a delusion in my head. The bullet killed me, and these are the last insane images of dying neurons. I have overdosed again after being lied to regarding the quality of my purchases. All of those are far more likely than the insanity you expect me to believe.

Sherlock, listen to me. Look at me and listen to me. [He reaches out and grasps Sherlock's shoulder.]

You were up on a roof about to jump. That isn't fake, that's a memory.

[And Sherlock's present as far as John knows. Whatever.]

When would you have had time to take any drugs? You didn't have time for any bullet wound to kill you. Not like you're talking about if it missed your heart.

[It's a wound he wants to see now.]

Accepting something unlikely is what you do. You see the unlikely, and you understand that even if the odds are small, there's still the possibility. It's what makes you special, Sherlock. You let the logic take you where it will. And if it's not drugs, and it's not randomly firing neurons, where does it take you?

Where does it take us? Because I'm here with you, Sherlock, and you can bloody well march back out into the snow and lie there for an hour or two to cool off if you're going to sit there and tell me I'm just some figment of your imagination, some fiction. I've gotten a hell of enough of that from everyone else here.

[He looks across into John's eyes with a desperation he cannot even attempt to mask, and searches frantically for any clues that will tell him this is not John Watson. But it is. Every detail is correct, every clue points him in a direction he doesn't want to go.]

This is not following the logic, this is all completely illogical.

[He passes a hand over his face again, and then again, before he settles with his thumb tugging at his lower lip in anxiety.]

This cannot be real, because if it is-- If it is, then I'm useless. What logical deduction would ever lead to a flying orange teenage bird? What clues could ever point to a talking dog?!

[This is what he's the most scared of. That he can't trust his own mind, that he can't order the world in his head as he always could. What good is he without his deductions? What use?]

No. You're not useless.

Sherlock Holmes, you are not useless. [He needs Sherlock to understand that before he does something desperate again.]

Look at all the people you responded to on the network and got in one. You were spot-on with a lot of people. And for the rest you just... they follow other kinds of logic. Comic book or video game or television show logic. There are internally consistent rules, you just don't know all of them, yet. As soon as you do, you'll pick them out as easily as anything else. Or as soon as you stop ignoring them.

This place, Norfinbury, it runs half on on regular logic and half on post-apocalyptic sci-fi logic. I can understand it, though. We both can. Those nukes that hit the city, those are something we understand. The shield is possible. It's where we'd expect technology to be headed, same with the nanomachines and the wireless recharge tablets. There's logic here, Sherlock, I promise. You're just ignoring it because it's not the sort of logic that makes sense in our time and place.

Edited 2016-10-21 16:14 (UTC)

[He leans forwards and the faint light from the outside illuminates a fading yellowish bruise on his jaw, a lasting reminder that all of what John is saying is true. There are people here from worlds that should be completely impossible.

He's so wrapped up in his own fears that he doesn't even notice that John is scared, perhaps that he might be heading back down a dark path. Perhaps because he never truly went down that path, not for real.

Sherlock only shakes his head, swallowing twice so hiw Adam's apple rides his throat shakily. He tries not to cry, tries to get hold of himself. He half covers his face, he needs to go into his mind palace and sort through this madness until he finds the sense in it. He needs to go deep.]

Just-- Just be quiet, John. Be quiet.

[He wants to press, he wants to demand that Sherlock talk to him and listen and stop freaking out. But that doesn't work with the consulting detective. John squeezes his shoulder, but lets his hand fall away after that. He pulls his other glove off, turns slightly to fish in his pack for his tablet and brings that out.

John is silent apart from a few gentle taps as he begins to scroll through the network. He'll be quiet, but he'll be here for whenever his friend decides he wants to talk again. This, at least, is a familiar pattern between them.]

[Thankful for the silence, Sherlock closes his eyes and steeples his fingers in front of his face, and falls mercifully quiet and still. The tears that threatened to fall don't, the shaking stops, and the fear smooths away from his face. He is, for all intents and purposes, no longer in this dingy little room with his friend.

He's in Mycroft's office. His brother has put on another three pounds, the buttons on his waistcoat are straining just a little more and the line of his trousers is less than perfect. He is stood by the window, a window which looks out over a snowy and desolate landscape. It's not cold in the office, a fire flickers in the grate, the only illumination in the room.

"You always were a stupid boy, Sherlock." Mycroft doesn't even look at him, his gaze fixed out at the pristine white snow.

"I am not stupid."

"Then tell me why you are in here, instead of out there?"

"I have to think, there is a rational explanation for all of this, it's in something I've already seen. Some trick, some drug, some... something."

Mycroft sighs. "So frightened by the possibility of things out of your realm of understanding. A true genius is excited by the new, impassioned by the unknown, and bolstered by the bizarre. Yet here you stand, running like a child away from the big, bad wolf." The door flies open at the final derisive word, and Moriarty in a red riding hood cape saunters in, basket of apples over one arm. "It's easier to pretend it's all a fairytale, Sherlock, is that it? But you've forgotten that fairytales, real fairytales, don't always have a happy ending. They're bloody, Sherlock. So very bloody."

Sherlock whirls to look at Moriarty in dismay, but he moves too fast and something catches under his heels, something invisible in the gloom. He falls backwards, hard, and lands not on the office floor but out in the cold, compacted snow. Everything hurts, he feels winded, and for a moment he just stays still letting the dampness seep into his coat. A crunching noise catches his attention, though, and he sits up just as Mary crouches down next to him. She looks amused, one eyebrow raised.

"You already know the truth, why are you going through this pantomime?"

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't told him about me. You haven't told him about you. He's suffering, Sherlock, he's grieving for you. You could end that."

"No, he'll forgive me for the lie. He has before. If I tell him, I risk altering the future. He might never meet you, he might not be convincing enough in his grief to escape one of Moriarty's bullets before I unravel the web, and then--"

"Sherlock," she laughs at him, like he's a child. Like he's a fool. "If none of this is real, why does it matter what he knows? You already know this is true subconsciously, or you wouldn't be making these decisions, you're just too scared to believe the evidence. You already deduced this was real, you can trust your mind and your skills."

He gapes at her, mouth open, trying to refute what she's said but unable to find the words. He can't have followed a deduction to this being real, because it's utterly ludicrous. And if it is real, his fears stand true. How can he be expected to be as perceptive when none of the rules match what he knows? How can he solve this mystery?

She laughs quietly and bends to kiss him on the forehead fondly. "Take care of him, Sherlock. He needs you, and that means you need to have faith in yourself. And you need to-- DUCK!"

"Wha--?" He's caught off guard as a taloned orange fist collides with his jaw. He quickly looks towards Mary, concerned, but she's somehow morphed into another floating orange half bird and half boy. Another, and another, and another, until he's surrounded by a ring of them. Floating impossibilities in shades. All of them look furious and, more importantly, afraid as they scream FUCK YOU in unison. It's something he missed before, the fear, he only saw the fist coming at him and reacted.

But that fear, it came from his deductions.

Which means he got it right.

Which means John is right, he can still deduce even if the rules are not ones he knows. It means that his mind is up to the task even when he won't believe it. It means he's still the best. Which, finally, means that this being real is something he can handle. It's just another mystery, another game, and he's playing for the lives of all of them.

His eyes snap open to complete darkness. Lockdown came and went hours past, it's nearly three in the morning now, and he's moving for the first time. His muscles protest, aching and stiff from being in one position, but there's a brilliant smile on his face when he grabs his tablet for illumination.]

John! Ah, John, isn't it magnificent? What a mystery, what a puzzle, the game is on!

Edited 2016-10-22 14:05 (UTC)

[John glances up periodically at his friend over the course of the first hour. When it's obvious Sherlock has sunk deep into his mind palace, that's John's cue that he can actually move around and do things without disturbing the other man. He takes care of a few things outside first, incredibly relieved for the use of his hands. The doctor digs through the snow a bit, looking for wood and nails. He wants a better weapon than the one he has at the moment.

Once that's done, he heads inside to check on Sherlock and then around the room they'll be staying in. There's really nothing here. Sherlock is never picking their meet-up point again. He has terrible tastes. The buildings to the east are far more hospitable. It's only a few hours after that, that the doctor settles down to eat and trawl the network again. Lockdown comes, John leaves some food--chicken nuggets, a tin of green beans, and a fruit cup--next to Sherlock and settles down to sleep. For the first time since losing Fiona and parting with Alfie, he feels honestly safe.

Of course, that doesn't stop him being jolted when Sherlock's voice suddenly sounds in the middle of the night. His voice is a sleepy mumble.]

The game needs to wait until at least 6 A.M., Sherlock. Lockdown, remember?

Edited (pronouns) 2016-10-22 15:41 (UTC)

What?

[He frowns down at John and the completely ignores how sleepy his friend is, starting to stride back and forth across the small room with too much energy. He's not tired despite not sleeping yet, far too exuberant in the discovery of truth.]

The time doesn't matter, wake up, there's so much we need to talk up. There might be useful things in your mind for once, John!

[Sherlock has apparently found his rationalizations and drive again. That means John's not going to get anymore sleep. With a sigh, the doctor pushes himself up to sitting.]

Useful things like what?

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cw: drug use

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