Characters: Sherlock, Amber, and Undertaker Location The hospital Date: Day 168 (Sherlock and Amber), and Day 170 (Sherlock and Undertaker) Summary: While mourning John, Sherlock meets some new friends Warnings: None
Even as well wrapped up as he is in his customary thick full-length Belstaff coat, leather gloves, and scarf, he still feels the chill bite down to his bones. He trudges into the hospital and immediately puts his pack down to begin brushing the snow from his shoulders.
A slight movement makes him look up, peering into the gloom.]
Cut throat bitch, I assume?
[He doesn't need an introduction, the way she holds herself hold all the clues he needs.]
[Amber looks at the man who just arrived carefully. And what would make him assume? Oh, well, when she thinks about it that way...]
And you must be Sherlock Holmes.
[There's something strangely satisfying with having the chance to say that. She wants to ask, but at the same time, asking feels like an invitation to give him an ego boost. Which, clearly, he doesn't need. But still...she wonders exactly what gave her away. He didn't know what she looked like and she hadn't spoken. Amber glances down at her ankle. It's feeling well enough not to need her makeshift cane, but she's still doing her best to keep her weight off of it until she feels confident enough to go outside again. Maybe that was it. She broadcasted her injury when she arrived, after all. Or...something else?]
You can just call me Amber. You found your prescription without any trouble, I hope?
[Of all the doctors he spoke to, she was probably the one he found the most useful so far, John notwithstanding. Though when just a medical light is taken into account, even including John. She has the ambition and selfishness, as well as the need to make friends here, that make her easily manipulated.
He smiles thinly.]
Yes, thank you.
[He taps at his chest with one gloved finger.]
I am healing well, my pulse remains a constant and my blood pressure does not appear to be elevated even while travelling.
[Not untrue. She has no investment in Sherlock on a personal level...but she is still a doctor. It would be a bit absurd for her not to care that he is and was suffering from a bullet wound to the chest.]
I imagine you had less success on finding corpses.
Good luck with that. The bodies are all locked in place--there's no way to get them out.
[She tried. She was curious, too. Not that Amber thought she'd find anything in particular. The mention of John makes her frown a little, however. Nothing against the man, of course, but she doesn't want to risk crossing him when she knows how vocal he was against prescribing anything to Sherlock in the first place.
Wouldn't be a good basis for a friendly relationship.]
[He isn't too worried. Magnetic locks, from what he's been informed, shouldn't be too difficult to break once he's had a good look at them. He's more interested in that frown. Why would John's name make her frown?
There were only a few possible reasons. She was one of John's numerous ex-girlfriends; unlikely, she hadn't been here long enough and he didn't recognise her from Baker Street. She has been involved in an argument with John; also unlikely, John is far too easy going, especially when it comes to women who are objectively attractive. Therefore the most likely reason is:]
You fear I will inform John that you prescribed me morphine. Don't. I shan't.
[Well, she did a little. That's definitely true. It was a possibility.]
Just wondering how I want to play it if he ever does find out.
[She's no Sherlock and she's no House, but that doesn't mean she's not capable of staying one step ahead of everyone else. Maybe her username has everyone on edge, but people will get used to it. They'll move on. She's willing to play the long con here unless it doesn't work in her favor.]
In any case, that's hardly as interesting as what you're going to do with the bodies. Do you mind if I watch?
[She's deflecting because she is still worried. Her image is everything to her at the moment; he would guess that is because she has nothing else to offer the people here, and they hold possible salvation from monsters or starvation, therefore she has to maximise that potential. A solid plan.]
I don't mind.
[He shrugs carelessly.]
As long as you don't speak, it might be useful to have a medically trained pair of hands to direct.
[A fair enough deal. It annoys her a little bit, but House would probably say something similar--right up until he's barking for her or anyone to spit out their thoughts. She's used to the verbal abuse. So she turns toward the morgue and starts walking.]
Fine.
[She feels sort of like she's being shrugged off into the role of an intern or attending nurse, but, well, what else is there to do around here?]
[Once they've gotten to the morgue and Sherlock gets down to his business, Amber finds a seat and observes. Not that she's observing for very long before he calls for her to join him. Well, calls for John to join him. There are a lot of things she could say here, but instead she raises an eyebrow as she stands and saunters toward him.]
[He has slunk through the hospital like a ghost for two days now. Not eating, barely sleeping, and speaking to nobody.
He doesn't even know if there were people in this godforsaken building with him. He hears voices sometimes, but they might be in his head, and he doesn't care enough to acknowledge them either way. He spends his time in the morgue all the hours he can, watching and waiting for one particular body to be brought there.
But his vigil was in vain. Happily so, for John is alive and he has no need to lose himself to such grief. If this is even a fraction of what John felt when he believed Sherlock dead, he can understand why he was punched now.
By the time the doors open to admit someone else new, Sherlock is sat near the entrance. Cross-legged, pack on his lap, and cheeks bulging with far too much food. He looks sort of like an overgrown and not very dignified hamster.]
[Undertaker was already getting a bit tired of the cold, despite having several layers to his clothes. Traveling in it wasn't too difficult, but stopping to warm up was a chore. At least this building looked large enough from the outside that his chances of finding running (possibly hot) water and bedding was promising.
He doesn't initially notice Sherlock as he brushes the snow and ice off his shoulders, briefly removing his hat to give it a little shake as well. The long strip of fabric on its crown dances this way and that until he plops it back into place on his head.
Of course, even when he notes that he isn't alone he has no way of knowing who his company is. Nor does he know who it isn't. Usually he's the one chipmunking food in his cheeks, so the reverse is actually amusing. Wordlessly, he walks to a spot right next to where Sherlock is currently planted and plops himself down beside him. In a blatant disregard for any personal bubble he might have.]
Careful that you don't choke, unless that's what you're going for. If so, carry on.
No, that's not true and would be incorrect to say. He's not physically starving to death, it would take a significantly longer time than two days with no food to do that. He just feels like he's starving now that his stomach no longer has the sensation of being filled with rocks. So he doesn't stop shoving food in his mouth even when this stranger sits down next to him.
Invades personal space, perhaps likes gaining an uncomfortable reaction. All dressed in black. Ring engraved with lilies which are often attributes to those who have passed on. Perhaps his corpse gathering friend. He chews, swallows, and then decides to test that theory.]
I'm in the right company if I do choke to death, am I not?
[It's an accurate deduction if an obvious one. Undertaker doesn't make a fuss over wearing the attire of a funeral mute, so despised by Dickens and the like, though it is odd that an undertaker himself would choose it. But the man gives a grin and a nod, stretching his legs out to relieve some of the ache in his feet and calves. He'd been checking himself for frostbite every evening, and currently his toes felt like blocks of ice. They could still wiggle in his boots, at least.
Slipping his own pack from around his shoulders, he mimics Sherlock by placing it over his lap and unzips it with his middle two fingers and thumb. Which are tipped in long black nails, though the polish is beginning to chip a bit.]
None better! Though it might take some time to build you a coffin, here, that isn't made of ice. Hee hee...
[He sounds like an old codger, and the grey color of his hair might support that theory if not for the lack of wrinkling on his face. Well, what parts of it that aren't covered by his bangs.]
[He might assume botox or some other cosmetic surgery, but the skin is still too elastic. Some people do just age well, or prematurely grey. His voice could also be from a number of conditions as well as simply put on to make him appear more stereotypical. He is obviously a man who relishes his profession an almost indecent amount.
His lips pull up into a smile.]
That was a laugh, my side of the bargain is complete.
[Some things are very obvious in a person's voice. And what he hears makes him raise his brows a degree underneath his bangs.]
Is that so? Does he call himself your assistant, too?
[Turning back to his pack, he searches through it with one hand for a moment until he locates his own rations and pulls one out. Unwrapping it, he takes a large bite in a mimic of Sherlock's earlier display.]
[What is this future speak and why does everything sound like a silly, made up language?]
That sounds fun. [It's said almost unironically. Normally Undertaker doesn't like to be ordered around, but he'll behave for now. Especially since their goals are similar.] Once I finish eating we can be on our way.
[But it's interesting information. In his time, only A Study in Scarlet had been published, and he does remember Watson being something of a chronicler in it. He'll play along and not reveal that quite so soon, though.]
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snowblindrpg2016-10-18 01:05 pm
For Amber - Day 168 - Pre being told about John's death
Even as well wrapped up as he is in his customary thick full-length Belstaff coat, leather gloves, and scarf, he still feels the chill bite down to his bones. He trudges into the hospital and immediately puts his pack down to begin brushing the snow from his shoulders.
A slight movement makes him look up, peering into the gloom.]
Cut throat bitch, I assume?
[He doesn't need an introduction, the way she holds herself hold all the clues he needs.]
no subject
And you must be Sherlock Holmes.
[There's something strangely satisfying with having the chance to say that. She wants to ask, but at the same time, asking feels like an invitation to give him an ego boost. Which, clearly, he doesn't need. But still...she wonders exactly what gave her away. He didn't know what she looked like and she hadn't spoken. Amber glances down at her ankle. It's feeling well enough not to need her makeshift cane, but she's still doing her best to keep her weight off of it until she feels confident enough to go outside again. Maybe that was it. She broadcasted her injury when she arrived, after all. Or...something else?]
You can just call me Amber. You found your prescription without any trouble, I hope?
no subject
He smiles thinly.]
Yes, thank you.
[He taps at his chest with one gloved finger.]
I am healing well, my pulse remains a constant and my blood pressure does not appear to be elevated even while travelling.
no subject
[Not untrue. She has no investment in Sherlock on a personal level...but she is still a doctor. It would be a bit absurd for her not to care that he is and was suffering from a bullet wound to the chest.]
I imagine you had less success on finding corpses.
[Hardly missing a beat, Amber smiles.]
Just passing through?
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[So he has had success in corpse hunting, thank you.]
John will also be meeting me here shortly, assuming he has not been overly delayed by his injuries.
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[She tried. She was curious, too. Not that Amber thought she'd find anything in particular. The mention of John makes her frown a little, however. Nothing against the man, of course, but she doesn't want to risk crossing him when she knows how vocal he was against prescribing anything to Sherlock in the first place.
Wouldn't be a good basis for a friendly relationship.]
no subject
[He isn't too worried. Magnetic locks, from what he's been informed, shouldn't be too difficult to break once he's had a good look at them. He's more interested in that frown. Why would John's name make her frown?
There were only a few possible reasons. She was one of John's numerous ex-girlfriends; unlikely, she hadn't been here long enough and he didn't recognise her from Baker Street. She has been involved in an argument with John; also unlikely, John is far too easy going, especially when it comes to women who are objectively attractive. Therefore the most likely reason is:]
You fear I will inform John that you prescribed me morphine. Don't. I shan't.
no subject
[Well, she did a little. That's definitely true. It was a possibility.]
Just wondering how I want to play it if he ever does find out.
[She's no Sherlock and she's no House, but that doesn't mean she's not capable of staying one step ahead of everyone else. Maybe her username has everyone on edge, but people will get used to it. They'll move on. She's willing to play the long con here unless it doesn't work in her favor.]
In any case, that's hardly as interesting as what you're going to do with the bodies. Do you mind if I watch?
no subject
I don't mind.
[He shrugs carelessly.]
As long as you don't speak, it might be useful to have a medically trained pair of hands to direct.
no subject
Fine.
[She feels sort of like she's being shrugged off into the role of an intern or attending nurse, but, well, what else is there to do around here?]
no subject
Hm. No visible locking mechanism or key, airtight seal to prevent anybody prying them open, probably magnetic-- John, come here.
[Wait--]
...I mean, come here.
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Yes?
[Awaiting further instruction, boss.]
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[He holds one hand out expectantly, not even looking at her. She should feel proud, this is exactly how he treats poor John.]
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For Undetaker - Day 170 - After being told of John's revival
He doesn't even know if there were people in this godforsaken building with him. He hears voices sometimes, but they might be in his head, and he doesn't care enough to acknowledge them either way. He spends his time in the morgue all the hours he can, watching and waiting for one particular body to be brought there.
But his vigil was in vain. Happily so, for John is alive and he has no need to lose himself to such grief. If this is even a fraction of what John felt when he believed Sherlock dead, he can understand why he was punched now.
By the time the doors open to admit someone else new, Sherlock is sat near the entrance. Cross-legged, pack on his lap, and cheeks bulging with far too much food. He looks sort of like an overgrown and not very dignified hamster.]
no subject
He doesn't initially notice Sherlock as he brushes the snow and ice off his shoulders, briefly removing his hat to give it a little shake as well. The long strip of fabric on its crown dances this way and that until he plops it back into place on his head.
Of course, even when he notes that he isn't alone he has no way of knowing who his company is. Nor does he know who it isn't. Usually he's the one chipmunking food in his cheeks, so the reverse is actually amusing. Wordlessly, he walks to a spot right next to where Sherlock is currently planted and plops himself down beside him. In a blatant disregard for any personal bubble he might have.]
Careful that you don't choke, unless that's what you're going for. If so, carry on.
gdi typo...
No, that's not true and would be incorrect to say. He's not physically starving to death, it would take a significantly longer time than two days with no food to do that. He just feels like he's starving now that his stomach no longer has the sensation of being filled with rocks. So he doesn't stop shoving food in his mouth even when this stranger sits down next to him.
Invades personal space, perhaps likes gaining an uncomfortable reaction. All dressed in black. Ring engraved with lilies which are often attributes to those who have passed on. Perhaps his corpse gathering friend. He chews, swallows, and then decides to test that theory.]
I'm in the right company if I do choke to death, am I not?
no subject
Slipping his own pack from around his shoulders, he mimics Sherlock by placing it over his lap and unzips it with his middle two fingers and thumb. Which are tipped in long black nails, though the polish is beginning to chip a bit.]
None better! Though it might take some time to build you a coffin, here, that isn't made of ice. Hee hee...
[He sounds like an old codger, and the grey color of his hair might support that theory if not for the lack of wrinkling on his face. Well, what parts of it that aren't covered by his bangs.]
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His lips pull up into a smile.]
That was a laugh, my side of the bargain is complete.
[Ha!
He didn't forget.]
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Ah, Mr. Consulting Detective! We meet faaaaace-to-face~
[Sherlock will find that for someone who asks to be made to laugh as a reward, he's awfully giggly just on his own.]
But you know, your partner already secured my agreement. I suppose he didn't mention it, did he?
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[He loves John, he does, but the poor man doesn't have the mental acuity to be a full partner.]
And I prefer to make sure my own deals are in place, especially for something as vital as a corpse.
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Is that so? Does he call himself your assistant, too?
[Turning back to his pack, he searches through it with one hand for a moment until he locates his own rations and pulls one out. Unwrapping it, he takes a large bite in a mimic of Sherlock's earlier display.]
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[He hates that stupid blog. Why is it more popular than his website?!]
There are some corpses here, a morgue in the basement, you may assist me in finding a way to open the drawers.
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[What is this future speak and why does everything sound like a silly, made up language?]
That sounds fun. [It's said almost unironically. Normally Undertaker doesn't like to be ordered around, but he'll behave for now. Especially since their goals are similar.] Once I finish eating we can be on our way.
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A blogger, in the manner of which John is a blogger, is a man who writes romanticised accounts of criminal cases for the public to consume.
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[But it's interesting information. In his time, only A Study in Scarlet had been published, and he does remember Watson being something of a chronicler in it. He'll play along and not reveal that quite so soon, though.]
Does he do anything else?
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cw: mention of suicide
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