Open Post 002

[2020mod]

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musebox • rules • character list

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open

[acclimatized]

With a hefty amount of references listed on his resume, Jacob Sowersby was considered an odd sort of fellow in his work field. Despite his experience and qualifications, he declined every permanent position offered to him. He wore many layers of clothing, shuffled awkwardly on his feet when he spoke, and fiddled with his glasses. No one could ever call him unfriendly or unsociable though. He always spoke softly and wore a kind smile on his face, even if it did seem a shade melancholy at times. Despite his best attempts to play himself down, Jacob gave people the impression that he had pulled something deep within himself and no one had the ability to pry it out – people rarely had the chance as he often disappeared on a new contract not soon after.

John Watson had died seven years ago; killed by the authorities alongside his flatmate. Faking his death and going underground had gone against his moral code at the time, but he was smart enough to know when sacrifices had to be made. He adapted, survived, and even made his peace with their choice... sort of. It had been an agonizing decision, but he hadn't regretted it. Warfare tended to have that numbing effect on John.

And besides, he could do more good here under a different name, not gallivanting around the globe with Sherlock. No, he was getting far too old for that kind of game. He could relay information to his friend and offer a sanctuary to people who sought one out in the City. Native or ImPort, he wouldn't turn anyone away. Rumours of his tolerant nature circulated across the City and he hadn't put any of them to rest.

When he wasn't working or in the library, he kept mostly to himself. He wasn't completely alone though. He adopted an American Pit Bull Terrier puppy five years ago and named him Blackheath. Sentimental git, he scolded himself at the time, but the canine kept him company and John had someone to talk to in this lonely flat.

[eburnean]

Molly has taken up a similar lifestyle, though without the faking her death bit. She'd helped someone do it once, but she didn't feel the need to do it for herself. What threat could Miss Hooper pose to the government once they'd taken away both Rossum and the clinic? She was just a doctor then, better at cutting people up than stitching them back together. But it makes people uncomfortable to know the former, and so it's the latter in which she specializes nowadays.

Keeping in touch is dangerous, but it's easier when you've already mourned the men who'd died. And finding a new friend in the same field who also traveled, well--it wasn't entirely obvious, at least.

Molly's gotten better about that, over the years. She doesn't smile as often, doesn't hold on to dreams that seem too optimistic.

She's left Lacey with an associate (she doesn't think Blackheath likes her much, poor kitty), but has a bottle of wine in her hands as she buzzes the flat. It's a small token, but one she's more than happy to bring.

[waiting]

There's a knock on John's flat door, one night.

It wasn't that that late, comparatively speaking, but it was late enough that visitors wouldn't normally be expected. Not normal visitors, anyway. But if the word on the street was good, nocturnal visitors weren't exactly something this guy turned away.

He didn't have a choice, anyway. Even if the bullet had only just grazed the edge of his upper arm, he was old enough that a would like that was a serious setback, not something he'd recover from earlier. He'd chosen this address above the others, because there was a chance of medical care. If it turned out his guess was wrong, well, he was fucked.

He waited on the doorstep, swaying slightly, the blood having seeped into his jacket beyond any hope of salvaging it.

[deductives]

John was probably having an entirely normal day util he returned to his flat. The sound of snoring from behind the door, however, probably alarmed him. It was chorused with Blackheath's louder, more guttural snores, and more than likely aggravating the neighbors.

Sherlock was fast asleep on John's armchair, with his friend's pitbull curled up on his feet to keep them warm. He didn't typically make so much noise (at least not in his sleep), but the travel to the City had worn him down more than usual.

He couldn't have been in the flat for more than a few hours, but already it looked like he'd lived there for ages. His coat, now a short, more discreet, blue shooting jacket, was draped over the slightly ajar bathroom door. In the small kitchen, the sink was full of the used dishes that weren't splayed across the table. An ashtray had been placed by the window, which was opened a crack for a filter as a cigarette uselessly burned down against the ceramic. Hardly domestic bliss, but John's flat was one of the few places left where Sherlock could actually be himself.

Naturally, he'd neglected to even tell John he'd be stopping by. In all the madness of government crackdowns and public shame, some things needed to remain sacred.

[acclimatized]

He was actually running behind schedule today and didn't make it home until around six-thirty. The computer system in the library had gone down in the afternoon and, as a result, the process took longer than John would have liked. In this climate, sticking to a schedule was something he was keen to do. There was less of a chance of receiving an unpleasant surprise that way, especially when the law enforcement in this new regime seemed to knock on his door more than the other tenants in the building.

As he started fishing around for his keys outside his apartment, he sensed something seemed out of place and his heart leapt into his throat. His days had become long and dull, but his senses were as sharp as ever and he couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong, but he just knew something seemed off. When he hadn't discovered body parts placed in haphazard places, it was one benefit about living with a detective and had picked up the skills to become one himself... before everything went to hell.

John soon calmed down, however, when he realized Blackheath wasn't causing a riot from inside the apartment. If something was amiss in there, he was sure the pit bull terrier would be raising hell about it. Again, it was a benefit to getting a dog at the end of the day. Making sure to muffle the noise on his end, John unlocked the door and pushed it open a crack, then opened it wide.

The sight of Sherlock and Blackheath sound asleep in his apartment drew a small smile from John. He wasn't surprised to see him. Not really. He often dropped in unannounced on him and it had been a few months since he last saw Sherlock Holmes. He stared at them for a moment and then walked carefully around them to the window, where he flicked the cigarette out onto the street below and started to quietly clear away the dishes. He didn't have the heart to wake them up, even though Blackheath soon leapt up and greeted his owner with an enthusiastic wag of his tail, deciding to let his friend get some well-needed rest.

[deductives]

Sherlock was in a deep enough sleep not to notice Blackheath move away from him. It only caused him to shift and finally close his mouth, halting the snoring. It was telling how tired he must have been, as not that or even John entering the flat woke him. Sherlock's sleep was rarely decent, but in this way of life, it was fitful, and if he was lucky, dreamless.

However, once John started clearing the dishes, the clanking of metal and ceramics caused him to jolt up with a start and a bit of incoherent babbling. His heart beat fast until he saw his friend and settled back into the chair. Nonchalantly, he checked his watch.

"You're home late."

[acclimatized]

"Yeah, I got held up at the library. Apparently their system was throwing a bit of a wobbly." John called back from the kitchen, not startled when Sherlock suddenly spoke up from his chair. Leaving the washing to be dealt with for another time, he walked back into the living room and smiled ruefully at him.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you up." He shrugged out of his overcoat and his jacket, folding them over one of two dining chairs in the room. Blackheath sniffed at his pockets while John frowned. "You look thinner. Have you been eating properly? I can rustle up some something for you."

[deductives]

"Cooking is one thing you've managed to master in my absence, I suppose," Sherlock answered evasively. He ate when he remembered to, which was usually when he felt his stomach trying to gnaw its way out of his body. At least he wasn't saying no.

"Just consider it a trade off for the two pounds you've put on since I was here last." His smile teased, but it wasn't malicious. "But how have you been? The police haven't been bothering you again, I hope."

[acclimatized]

"Cheaper than buying a take-away every night." John agrees in an even voice. It was a lot safer, too. He didn't want to inadvertently reveal his power if a small time criminal decided to take a pop at him, especially since he was suspected he was under some kind of surveillance.

"Erm, one of my neighbours decided I need fattening up. Can't really say no, can I?" He grins impishly, smoothing down his cardigan with his hand and lingers in the living room for a little longer, letting his voice drop. "They have been, but I've been handling it."