OPEN POST; [ HERLOCK SHOLMES / TGAA ]

[retroductions]

(( hold you in my dreams ))

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[retroductions]

[Gesticulates wildly.]

M-Mrs Minicle! That's my name, dear, I'm merely an elderly woman who lives in Middlesex! I collect tea cups and Bibles! I have three cats and a boa constrictor! And-

"Mrs Minicle? The one you said was too tall to pull off as a proper old lady? You giving it another spin for improvement or something—"

[SPEAKS LOUDER-] -I AM, INDEED, YOUR BELOVED HUSBAND HERLOCK SHOLMES COME TO SURPRISE YOU UPON YOUR ARRIVAL TO LONDON.

[spelljam]

Oh.

[spelljam]

[ BASHES HIM WITH HER LUGGAGE ]

Bastard! Hooligan! Ne'er-do-well! You are thinking yourself so funny? So clever? I am away from you for longer than we were ever together and this is how you think to greet me? Pretending to be someone else so I get off train and feel—

[ her voice cracks. feel forgotten. ]

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[STRUCK BODILY BY HER LUGGAGE

The way he wheels backward and lands on his ass is probably not all that performative, given her strength. Indeed, he got what was coming to him, but he's up in the next moment with surprising vigor, though with a welting red mark on the side of his face to show for it. Not to mention skewed glasses and a wig that is only half clinging on.

The cab driver sure gets a show.]

My love, I didn't— You are construing it as a prank when it was well meant to be a surprise! A grand surprise, indeed, for if my own wife could not recognize me as Mrs Minicle, then who might! [The way Sprezzatura's voice cracks, though, means there is something he must mend posthaste.] You would never be a lapse in my memory, far too important for it. What Mrs Minicle said was true!

[spelljam]

[ in her heart of hearts, she feels some grief for the sight of that welt on his face, and the glasses askew, and his frantic explanation that only makes her cheeks burn hotter with shame. my love, those words she has longed to hear in his voice for so long, and now that it's come, she's nearly in tears. ]

I do not care what Mrs Minicle say! Do you know how long I have been longing to see you? I wished to run across platform and throw myself into your arms, but instead I am bludgeoning you in street and people are staring!

[ they are. not many, but a few. ]

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[It is a dawning realization, indeed, that perhaps trying to surprise-his-wife-and-also-(re)test-the-efficacy-of-an-old-disguise instead of meeting her normally at the station, arms wide open and bright smiles, was a mistake.

Ah, but what else is new for Herlock Sholmes, operating on impulse and oft making a mess of things? Yes, the cab driver and other passerbys are certainly getting a show, but Sholmes hardly cares; instead, he reaches out to take her free hand — the one that isn’t white-knuckled gripping the luggage.]

Sprezzatura, you must forgive me. It was a rare but dire miscalculation on my part, and I would only ever wish for a joyful reunion between us.

You might throw yourself into my arms right now, instead, if you like!

[spelljam]

[ this feels so dumb. it's so dumb. she's hot-faced and teary-eyed and overwhelmed, overstimulated, and Sholmes is dressed as an old lady whose hair is falling off. her eyes—in this form a dark blue—darts down and back up.

thickly, ] You look ridiculous.

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[Sholmes chortles out a laugh, as though that might forcibly change the mood into something with more levity.]

This state is not optimal Mrs Minicle, I'm afraid!

[And in the same gesture, he grips the wig atop his head and pulls it off, to reveal a tousled head of blonde hair that she should be well familiar with. And with his other, he peels off the layer of wrinkles around his forehead and eyes that gave him the more weathered appearance of an elderly lady.

The glasses remain for now, but at least he looks a bit more like Sholmes. Sholmes in an old woman's gown.]

Better?

[spelljam]

Is it?

[ yes. she does in fact throw herself at him. goodbye, luggage. who gives a fuck? he's here, he's almost himself—himself enough that she can forgive the gown if it means she can bury her face against him and breathe in and—there.

it's him.

she feels herself begin to cry, a little. ]

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[The luggage doesn't matter, the cab driver not knowing where to look doesn't matter, the busy street doesn't matter; all that matters is Sprezzatura in his arms again after so long, and making her feel as though he missed the warm presentness of her. And oh, how he did.

His long arms wrap around her, holding her close, chest heaving with low laughter.]

Oh, my love, how I missed you. [And because a consulting detective always senses all, the micro-changes in body language even with her pressed so close-] No need for tears, now.

[spelljam]

Do not tell me what to do.

[ the definite hitch, her voice hard and hoarse. he smells like him. all his clothes she'd kept had long since stopped, and she's nearly forgotten it—what sweet heartache to be reminded again. ]

Why did you dress like this! Stupid man.

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[He smells like shag tobacco and books and newspaper and a chemistry set that's brewed so many questionable things.]

Aha... well, if my own wife could not recognize me in Mrs Minicle's disguise, is that not proof of how astounding of a disguise it is?

[The implication being that it wasn't always. That way.]

[spelljam]

This is bad priority!

[ she gives his chest another thump, and yes, there's the glisten of teartracks on cheeks. only slightly, mercilessly smothered ]

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[He deserves every single thump, and even if this one does not jostle him as bodily as the luggage did, he sways.]

The timing, perhaps, could use a bit more adjusting.

[Ah, he's sorry. And Sholmes is so rarely apologetic for the things he does, even if right now? He's still so happy to see her; this elation overrides aught else.

Bends down to kiss at one of those glistening tracks of tears, gentle.]

Forgive me, my dearest.

[spelljam]

[ how she has ached to hear his voice calling her these things—his dearest, his love. so much so that his kiss nearly prompts a flinch. her fingers twist in his stupid old-woman garb. ]

Take me to your home that I might tear these ridiculous garments from your body.

[ sorry to the hansom driver in particular ]

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[The hansom driver's pointedly paying attention elsewhere down the street. Though Sprezzatura's comment incites a throat-clearing from him.

Sholmes, though, just laughs, unbothered (or just encouraged) by her not-quite-innuendo.]

Post-haste, then! Anything to make up for my unsightly transgressions.

[He detaches himself from her just long enough to step towards the cab and open the door for her, despite it being the driver's responsibility. He calls out to him-]

My good man! To 221B Baker Street!

[spelljam]

[ in she gets, and in that moment of familiarity, once the door closes behind him, it sinks in anew: this is real. he's here, or rather, she's there. the scent of him fills the interior. she wipes her face, exhaling. ]

Herlock—

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[There's not an awful lot of room in a hansom, but there's enough for him to sit close and bring their suitcases in with them. Sholmes squeezes inside easily enough, despite his long limbs, and he hits the hatch above with a loose fist to indicate that they're ready to go.

With a slow lurch, the cab begins its journey. The muffled sound of hooves clopping against the cobbled road emits from beyond the confines of the cab.]

Yes, Sprezzatura?

[spelljam]

[ "I've been trying for so long to get to you," sounds so incredibly stupid now that she cannot allow herself to confess it. what could have stopped her, after all? nothing. here she is.

but the rawness of the journey it took to get here, that's still fresh. so is the sheer overwhelm of this city so like and so unlike her own. instead of saying anything at all, for now, she turns her body in the cramped quarters of the car, feet jostling the suitcases—cannot believe that he brought his own luggage just to complete the act—and tucks her face down against his sternum, beneath his chin. she could never do this in her own body. her horns would get in the way. cut. ]

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[Oh.

She needn’t words at all, the gesture speaks for itself. He feels his stomach do a little somersault; his heart flutters. An arm wraps around her to keep her close, as though she might slip away otherwise.]

Oh, you are quite solid, quite warm. [A kiss atop her head, and he gets to scent her hair.] Very much real, empirically so. It isn’t a dream.

[spelljam]

[ the faint acrid smell of a tiefling. the shampoo she tries to cover it up with. she turns her face deeper into his neck ]

I had so many dreams like this. Just like this. [ voice soft, especially for her ] I hold you and dote on you and decorate your bed and I wake so convinced I still see your indent in my coverlet.

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[Precisely how he remembers. Fondness and nostalgia both intertwine in his bosom, so many memories unearthed from that scent alone. Even the way she nuzzles into him.]

For as long as you're here, the dream needn't end. You may hold and dote and decorate as much as you please. [Heh.] Though... you are a guest in London, and I must spoil you accordingly, as well.

[spelljam]

[ the dream needn't end... ]

Tell me.

[retroductions]

Oh, you may experience the finest to drink, the finest to smoke. Iris will want to speak to you about inventions while she serves you her tea. We might dance ceaselessly to my gramophone, or perhaps you'd like to listen to the serene ["serene"] notes of my violin in the latest hours of the night, when you cannot sleep?

And... most important of all...

[PAUSE FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT]

[spelljam]

[ pipe tobacco, wine, tea, dancing, violin—it's all nearly enough to drive her once more to tears, the thought. it's true, she did miss his playing. it has become even more difficult to sleep without it, and the night empty when she wakes and there are no notes. ]

Most important...?