harlequined | ( an open post #1 )

[ Today had started off as a relatively normal day. Some kind of chanting had been blasting throughout the house over the sound system when she woke up, and Sherlock spent the morning pacing around the kitchen, searching his mental file cabinet for anything that could be useful to a case they'd been asked to consult on the day before.

Eventually he'd gotten a lead that lead them to the back of a restaurant in the center of little Italy. It resulted in a lot of shouting in a language that she didn't understand and hand gestures that Joan simply didn't feel comfortable with.

She trusted him enough to know that things wouldn't get physical, but feeling as though she had nothing to offer, she thought that she would try her hand at a different lead on the other end of town. A lead that she might've been able to understand; one that didn't angrily wave knives in their general direction.

She remembers leaving the restaurant out the back door to go hail a cab, but she didn't actually get to one. She was stopped by a young woman on a side street to offer directions, and after that, her memory goes fuzzy.

Her memory's not the only thing, as she's currently seeing some kind of blurry haze when she comes to. She's seated in the middle of a dimly lit room, and by the sharp feel of plastic digging into her wrists behind her back, she can safely assume that they're bound by a zip tie (or two, it's difficult to tell).

It's a shot in the dark, and she doesn't expect him to be there when she finally calls for him, but at the moment, Joan doesn't know what else to do. ]

Sherlock?

[ At the very least, it would get somebody's attention that she'd woken up so she could attempt to get some kind of answer about her situation. Or possibly buy some time for someone to track her cellphone's signal, because this didn't seem like one of Sherlock's unusually cruel lessons. ]

[ In the game of chess, the King surrounds himself with all manner of pawns, both big and small. They are meant to defend, to act as guard. Made of plastic, made of glass, porcelain, steel, iron — they are all there for the taking, no matter what it is they're made of. Their sole purpose is also their sole weakness: they live to serve, the consequence matters little.

This is what happens when one surrounds themselves around Sherlock Holmes. Little do they know that once they see his heart, they will remain at his side. They're all so very eager to impress. To keep the man who appears to know everything interested, one must perform all number of tricks and tasks to make their existence known. Our Joan Watson did very little. Instead, she was persistent. Even the great Sherlock Holmes can be worn down and reduced to the most basic of sciences. He simply didn't know it, yet.

That's where he comes in. The villain of our story, if you will. If one could, of course, consider Sherlock Holmes to be any matter of heroic. It's quaint, really, their little game. Strings woven and entangled so far ahead of time that even our doting detective cannot see them. He didn't ask for the upper hand; it was always his. It always would be.

Irene Adler had served her purposes well. Sherlock Holmes was left vulnerable, exposed to the rest of the world. Such fine details could only be the work of some higher power. Yes, this has been in the works for ever a long time.

This play, as passionate as it is, is comprised of several acts. The King, our detective, this unlikely hero — he has been left without his pawn. His guard is down and his defenses have been laid to nothingness. Could it be that our villain will take this to his advantage? Will he swoop in now, of all times? Claim his prize? Hardly. This is only Act One, after all.

James Moriarty is a man of vision and his sights are set elsewhere.

Joan Watson sits center stage. Her arms are pressed behind her back, wound tight by her wrists. The chair she rests in is bolted to the floor. The room is dark until she stirs. This is when the lights go up. They're dim, but his figure isn't immune to the light — he's nothing but a shadow. His hands are folded. His suit is pressed. Raise curtain. ]

Ah, afraid he can't hear you, Doctor Watson. Our dear Sherlock is a long, long, — long way from home.

[ "...a long, long, — long way from home."

The voice isn't one Joan recognizes, but clearly he knows her, as he addresses her by name.

Ignoring the way her heart thuds away in her chest, her jaw ticks. Doctor Watson. Doctor. Now isn't the time for those memories, so she pushes them aside. ]

I'm not a doctor anymore.

[ Her hands work furiously behind her back. She knows how to break free of zip ties — Sherlock has taught her. Zip ties, handcuffs, rope. It'd be difficult to abduct Joan Watson if she's conscious while doing so.

Clearly that's not the case, here, and unfortunately so, as she can't get her arms high enough to get any kind of momentum to break the plastic.

Now is the time where she begins to really panic. She squints in a poor attempt to get a better look at the figure in front of her, all the while cursing the soft lighting in her mind. She knows seeing him wouldn't change her current situation, but it'd certainly make her feel better.

(Or worse.)

Refusing to show just how scared she is, Joan turns her chin up in defiance and purses her lips. She contemplates not speaking at all, not giving him the pleasure of knowing that he's worked her up, but she has things she needs to know, and things she needs him to know. There's a long moment of silence before she speaks. ]

It doesn't matter. He's going to look for me.

[ The gears in her brain turn quickly, looking for any kind of link that would leave her here. She's not stupid — she knows Sherlock's made plenty of enemies in his day, but she's not been with him for most of them, so why is she in this predicament while he isn't?

Surely if he was here, they'd both already be free. Or, maybe he's tied up somewhere else in his own dimly lit room, and that's what her company — capturer? — means by a long way away. ]

Why am I here? What do you want?

[ It doesn't matter how often Selina slips into a gown for the evening, it still feels foreign to her.

She puts on her mask and pretends to be someone that belongs in a life like this; in a life that has charity balls and nights dedicated to a man for making donations to world organizations.

It's that same mask that allows her to slip away from the dance floor, leaving one billionaire playboy to find someone to take her place in the next dance as she says she needs some air. Even her feelings for him couldn't trump the the shaking reality that while she blends in perfectly, she doesn't belong in these places.

No, she made a living stealing from these people. Their precious jewels; their expensive watches that they simply must to show off because, oh, look at how the light hits it just right. She took what she needed to get by, and every once in a while she even spoiled herself.

What kind of master cat burglar would she be if she didn't?

Catwoman hasn't made an appearance in a while, and leaning against the brick wall of the building outside in a long, black gown, she won't be sharpening her claws tonight, either, though the opportunity in Gotham sang to her as it did every other night.

If she smoked, this would be the perfect moment to light one up, but she wasn't the only one outside at the moment, and she thought her present company might find it rude, anyway. ]

Dancing's not in your vast set of skills, hm?

[ Catwoman hasn't made an appearance in a while. Superman's everywhere. (Nobody in this part of the world seems to be very good at making up names that aren't the obvious.)

He shows up because there's a tenuous, unnamed agreement between himself and Bruce, and it feels like it's the right thing to do. You don't show up to somebody's house empty-handed and you don't turn down an invitation — it's not what he would have done, not what he woudl have preferred, but Gotham (rightfully) isn't his city and none of it means he has to understand something that isn't his.

Clark udnerstands Batman. He understands the why, if not the who. He can't say he feels the same about Selina. ]

I like it better out here.

[ He offers it to her plain. He's leaning against the same, brick wall, seated, one knee raised and one arm propped up on the round of it. Those glasses of his are still stubbornly on the bridge of his nose. (It works better than you might think. ]

I'm not sure I know how to keep up with anybody in there.

[ Will Graham doesn't like traveling. Planes, specifically. There's something about planes that make him anxious – being in a confined space with all those people, not being able to turn his brain off and ultimately reading into how just about everyone is feeling; it's a bit too much for him to handle.

If someone were to ask him why, if he hates traveling so much, he agreed to go out of the country to assist with a case, he wouldn't have an answer for them. Because it's the right thing to do? Because he needed to get away from Jack Crawford and the Chesapeake Ripper case, only if for a little while?

Whatever his reason, he's unhappily seated on a plane to London, England. Something about a serial killer that nobody can seem to get a grasp on. A mind like Will's would probably do them some good. What kind of awful person would he be to say no?

At least they were gracious enough to seat him in first class. There's less people up here, and more space. He hasn't had the misfortune of touching elbows with the woman seated to his left, but he doesn't think she's even aware of his existence, though he's looked over in her direction more than a handful of times. He's unable to read her, and while that's a welcome phenomena, it's still incredibly strange.

A stewardess pulls his attention from the book that he's been trying — and failing, thus far — to distract himself with, and he nearly jumps out of his seat before he looks over at her. No doubt she's noticed by the way he twitches and stirs in his seat that he's not a good flyer. She probably feels bad for him, given the sad smile he receives before she asks him if there's anything she can get him to drink.

And while he knows better, he doesn't hesitate even a bit before: ]

Whiskey. Whatever you've got is fine.

[ The lacrosse team is doing some summer conditioning, and while normally he wouldn't mind having to be at school after it's over for the year, it's just too hot to be outside. Even for someone whose body can take more than the average person's.

His inner wolf is no match for the California sun, and it's not long before he needs to go inside refill his water bottle. (And maybe spend some time in the nice, air conditioned building.)

The minute he steps into the hallway, he can hear it: piano. Someone was in the music room playing, and his legs are taking him in the direction of the sound before he's even aware that they're moving. It sounds too good to be a student, so it's no surprise that his curiosity gets the best of him.

Upon arriving at the room the music's coming from, Scott comes to a halt in the doorway. He's wrong, of course, and the she is definitely no older than he is. His eyebrows raise high on his forehead and he listens quietly, not wanting to disturb her (or seem like some creepy stalker).

Before he can stop himself, though, he opens his mouth to speak. ]

You play really well.

[ At least he's quiet. ]

[ Natalie is one of the most gifted students around. There are summer music classes indoors while the sports teams practice and, though she may not sound like she needs it, she is content to practice until her joints ache. And even more so after that. She excels in all her classes but she keeps her head down, away from people and drama, disappearing when school is over.

Her fingers dance over the keys and she's pretty certain there are a few off key notes but on a school piano, that doesn't surprise her. She isn't picky about where she practices but she does take issue with interruptions. Slowly, she lifts her hands and rests them in her lap. ]

I'll be out of here soon.

[ The way he shakes his head is as if he's personally offended by the idea of her stopping. ]

No, no, I'm not... [ Musically inclined? Gifted in any kind of way when it comes to music? ] I'm here for lacrosse. [ He points at his jersey, if it wasn't obvious enough, and takes a few steps into the classroom. ] I was just coming inside for more water and heard you playing and got curious.

[ Scott gives her a rather sheepish smile in apology for interrupting, but that's not enough, so he speaks again. ]

I'm sorry for interrupting you, but you play so well and I just got curious.

Oh.

[ That at least gets a half-smile to form on her face. That was incredibly ... earnest. Something she isn't accustomed to, honestly. ]

I don't pay attention to sports. [ Normally, that would be the comment to shut down any further conversation, but she says it almost apologetically, in response to his compliments. ] I'm just - it's just practice, that's all. It's not perfect.

[ Well, that's gotta be a good sign, right? She hasn't asked him to leave outright, and he even seemed to make her semi-happy just by being honest with her.

So instead of saying goodbye and getting back to the field like he should do, he takes a few more steps forward. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug and tilts his head, looking at the piano.

He literally could not find something more out of his element even if he tried. Too delicate, too intricate. ]

Could've fooled me. If that's not perfect, it's gotta be pretty close. [ He smiles again, looking back at her, now. ] But I also can't play at all, so what do I know.

[ Okay, handsome, friendly athlete talking to the pianist with the scowling resting face. She tries not to look so dour today, even turning around on the bench to look at him. ]

Believe me, I've got ... a lot of work to do. [ She holds her hands up, shrugging herself. Conversation. How do you continue a conversation when you're so used to being alone with your own thoughts? ]

I can't play -- uh, whatever you play, so. I guess we're even or something.

[ Someone as good as she is, continually putting herself down? Scott frowns a bit and shakes his head. He's not having any of this. ] Well, then you're going to be fantastic.

[ Even or something? Not even a little bit. ] Yeah, maybe, but anyone could learn to play lacrosse. A few practices and you get the gist of things. [ He motions at the piano. ] I think that's a little different. Takes talent and years of hard work.

[ Sometimes she thinks about going out for the swim team here to maybe add it to her college applications, if anything. Show that she's a well-rounded student. After transferring in, in the middle of last year, maybe she's more settled now. ]

Don't you need to get back to lacrosse practice or something?

[ Which sounds mean, but she doesn't intend for it to come out that way, so she quickly amends: ] I mean, you shouldn't get in trouble.

[ She's right, he should be getting back to lacrosse practice. So why Scott shrugs his shoulders and takes another step forward (while making sure to stay a safe distance away, just in case she had a larger ... bubble than others) instead is entirely beyond him. ]

I guess, but— [ He'd rather stay here. ] —they'll be okay without me for a while.

[ That's assuming that she even wants him to stick around, and he's not entirely sure about that.

Raising an eyebrow and grinning, he nods back at the door. ]

Unless you want to get back to your playing. I can go if you'd like. [ That sounds a bit like he's guilt tripping her into letting him stay, and that's not his intention at all. Hopefully she catches on. ] I don't want to distract you.

[ Natalie looks at him through a narrowed gaze, her lip curling into a half grin as she considers him. ]

I can't tell if you're giving up or if you want to be more persistent, [ she observes out loud, snorting to herself as she turns around on the piano bench again, letting her fingers dance up the keys in a light trill. ]

You ever learn how to play "Heart and Soul?" [ But before he can answer, Natalie starts playing both parts easily, a jaunty, easy tune. She points her elbow to the empty spot next to her on the bench. ]

( an open post #1 )

( lincoln )

( jack )

( selina )

( chuck )

( scott )

( joan )

I Am Really Turned On™

just as I planned it.

it's been 84 years but—

( amy )

SELINA.

PURRS HAPPILY

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#somebody help will graham

BACKTAGGING YOU SAY???

THE BEST BUDDYCOP MOVIE IN ALL OF EXISTENCE.

¬ scott

hey hi hello hope this is okay!

yee this is lovely!

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¬ ken ( mega voicetesting for me too )