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harlequined2013-11-16 02:19 am
charmlessness) wrote in harlequined2013-11-16 02:19 am
Entry tags:
( an open post #1 )
you know the rules. pick a muse. post a photo / some words / some lyrics / a link to a song, etc, with a character of your choosing. profit.
I Am Really Turned On™
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. ]
just as I planned it.
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.
it's been 84 years but—
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?