William Sherlock Scott Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thevictoriandetective) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenace2016-11-15 03:05 pm
thevictoriandetective) wrote in maskormenace2016-11-15 03:05 pm
001 Video
[There's some fumbling and muttered rude words, a flash of blue and gray. Finally it comes into focus, a tall, thin man--not as tall as he looks--gazing intensely into the screen. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead that his dark curls are sticking to. His eyes dart back and forth rapidly, and his pallor suggests he's ill or at least feels ill. He's wearing a fitted white shirt under a tailored suit jacket. More likely the latter, though he looked like he didn't belong in Florida weather. He's in an alleyway, someplace quiet.]
Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes.
[He's expecting some recognition or something. That arrogant tilt of his chin hides the utter bewilderment and flabbergastation that's whirling around in that mind. Oh yeah, he's dead confused and completely out of his element, figuratively and literally.]
Clearly this is some massive practical joke, no doubt financed by someone who hates me. Since that's a lot of people, I figured I would address as many as possible with this device. You can't expect me to believe I haven't just been kidnapped and dropped in this disgusting swamp and that some stupid newspaper has-been in search of his last chance at a proper story is waiting behind curtain number three to snap a picture of me making a fool of myself. Or a mad little experiment from our old friends at Baskerville. I really don't care, though admittedly, you've done an excellent job with the special effects, the cars...the science fiction. Theatrical. I applaud the spectacle.
However, it grows tiresome. This ruse is stupid, so you can stop this now, you can give up.
I also will need plane tickets back to London immediately, return my actual phone, and someone to remove this idiotic tattoo.
Don't make me call my brother.
Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes.
[He's expecting some recognition or something. That arrogant tilt of his chin hides the utter bewilderment and flabbergastation that's whirling around in that mind. Oh yeah, he's dead confused and completely out of his element, figuratively and literally.]
Clearly this is some massive practical joke, no doubt financed by someone who hates me. Since that's a lot of people, I figured I would address as many as possible with this device. You can't expect me to believe I haven't just been kidnapped and dropped in this disgusting swamp and that some stupid newspaper has-been in search of his last chance at a proper story is waiting behind curtain number three to snap a picture of me making a fool of myself. Or a mad little experiment from our old friends at Baskerville. I really don't care, though admittedly, you've done an excellent job with the special effects, the cars...the science fiction. Theatrical. I applaud the spectacle.
However, it grows tiresome. This ruse is stupid, so you can stop this now, you can give up.
I also will need plane tickets back to London immediately, return my actual phone, and someone to remove this idiotic tattoo.
Don't make me call my brother.
Video;
Far as I know, this popsicle stand innit a joke. Seems not to be an illusion or Hell, at that. But yah might be a better investigator’n me.
[ That last bit might be his idea of a joke. A pause as he reaches off camera for a cigarette, then: ]
Gotta admit though. If I'm stuck here it's a relief they're sendin' more folks who speak the Queen's English. Was gettin' homesick.
Re: Video;
Oh, so they've hired an actor. Well, I suppose that would make sense, considering the budget they must have spent on this place.
[He looks around, his brows furrowed with worry that he can't keep off his face. Clearly he's putting two and two together and really, why would anyone spend this much money on a joke or experiment? From what he'd gleaned from Mycroft, the Crown's coffers needed to be put to other far more important uses. The only thing he could think of was Moriarty--not actually Moriarty, but whoever was using his name at the moment--but again, to what point was this all for!?]
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[ John continues to watch with interest. The little twitches in people's faces always say so much about the mental journey they're on. As he looks on he thinks back to London, trying to visualize details only a fellow Brit would know. Something to gain the bloke's trust - although it's not as altruistic as it sounds, not at all. ]
Back a' home. The ferris wheel's an eyesore. The seats creak an' the paint can't stand up to the rubbish weather an' bloody tourists always feed the bloody pigeons. Remember that, mate?
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Of course. What point are you trying to make?
[He has an idea of the point he's trying to make, but he's almost mumbling now. His lightning-fast brain has put together nearly all possibilities and the nastiest one is starting to look the most real.]
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[ He doesn't actually look sorry. ]
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No. You could be hired by...there are any number of reasons you could know that! You can't expect me to possibly believe that this is all real!?
[He's getting agitated. The screen flickers slightly, he doesn't know it but his technopathy is responding to his burgeoning panic.]
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Hired? Think I'd look like this if I had money?
[ It's not the whole truth but no one needs to know that. If John had money he'd probably still look like the scuzzy Northern bastard that he is. Still, it's a particular look and hard to quite imitate. ]
Hate to say it, but I've seen much weirder things than...all this. [ He gestures vaguely at the backdrop behind him. ]
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You can't possibly expect me to believe that this is...another world!?
[A pause. His deductions are catching up with his panic.]
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For a moment, let's pretend I believe you and that everything they said in this stupid pamphlet is true. We can't go back to where we're from? We're stuck here?
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Y'know what they say about when you eliminate the impossible, bruv.
[ John snuffs out the butt of his cigarette and immediately reaches for another, waiting, watching for a reaction.]
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I can't...no, I have to return to London. Right now!
[He's all but stamping a foot and throwing a tantrum.]
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There's a London here, 'far as I know. Been a touch too busy to visit it, though.
[ But mental illness is at least one thing John takes semi-seriously, so he musters up the mental energy to be slightly more helpful, just one sociopath to another: ]
There's loads of us here. From other places, I mean. Yeh'll get used to it.
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This is...this is madness. I can't...I won't--this can't be real! There's an explanation, a perfectly logical and sound and sane explanation, I just have to find it!
[He has no right to yell at someone who was trying to help him. And he knew that, but it was taking every last ounce of self control not to smash the stupid phone device into a wall or start insulting every poor person that dared look his way. There was no one to deflect blame to, no one to try and deduce so that he'd at least feel better, so right now he was sort of clenching and unclenching his fists and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.]
And if there's not...
[He's quiet all of a sudden. His brows furrowed. Lips pursed. He looked back up at the one who was at least trying to calm him down. A bit.]
This is definitely...not good.
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The blokes in charge here are playing with their toys. The toys just happen t'be futuristic machines that can open doors through time an' space an' the folks playing with 'em happen to be the government. Not that bonkers, considering.
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[He tries to remember what he'd read of the pamphlet and what he's heard.]
So are you...do you work for them? Like apparently we're supposed to?
[If his deductions were correct he doubted that the man did. But he'd been wrong before. Especially when struggling to repress his emotions.]
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[ HOPEFULLY the sarcasm was thick enough to be detectable. ]
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I can only assume that there is some probably some sort of terrible overarching reason behind all of this. Probably a terrible one.
[He's delighted at the thought of an incredible mystery. Despite his reservations and disbelief, he's suddenly quite cheered up.]
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[ But then, they didn't have the world's other best detective milling about before. Oh, John can already tell he's made a new friend. ]
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Brilliant!
[He kind of says that out of nowhere, looking gleeful.]
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Name's John, by the by. John Constantine. Dabble a bit in investigations me'self, but ah... not exactly my foremost past time.
[ Which is as close as he'll ever get to being honest or humble about himself so ENJOY THE MOMENT. ]
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Are you any good?
[John? Speaking of, he really should see if the John he knew was pulled into this place. It wouldn't be half as fun without him. But he declined to say anything about it at the moment, just in case. It didn't do to play all your cards at once.]
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[ He...also just happens to dabble in occult business that will probably send Sherlock back to having a spinning head. That might come up at some point. ]
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Well, suppose we could pool our resources. If you find anything we should share information.