OPEN POST; [ HERLOCK SHOLMES / TGAA ]

[retroductions]

(( hold you in my dreams ))

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[retroductions]

[This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in ages! Why would he give up? And there’s something missing in this tale, something he feels is critical, and it bothers him to no end.

Leans forward, brow furrowed and pipe eking smoke.]

Protect me? From what, the truth? There is nothing more compelling to me than that, Ms Sapione. I can take care of myself, as I have been.

[so says the young man living in disordered chaos]

[velluminous]

[ it would be so narratively satisfying for her to finally, finally admit that living like this is not emblematic of a healthy mind. but the reality is, she's not going to. she doesn't self-reflect like that. to her, he has taken care of himself as well as she has taken care of herself. this is not the part of his argument she means to refute.

for an instant. her eyes flit down to the pipe in his mouth. ]

And what if I do not wish to speak of it? What if truth pains me?

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[Oh, there’s nothing wrong with living like this. Best for the mind to redirect to more important things than spatial organization. Probably!!

He catches the glance at his pipe. As always, such looks give little secrets away, but this one does baffle him. Is it familiar to her? Is… more of this familiar to her than she’s letting on?

He offers the pipe to her.]

And do you believe that just because the truth is painful that it must never be brought to light?

[velluminous]

Sometimes.

[ oh, yes. sometimes.

her dark eyes are very dark indeed, fixed upon the offered pipe. her entire body aches for a pull.

so, in the end, she accepts, and sets the pipe unsteadily between her teeth. ]

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[He wonders if he could ever find it in himself to agree with that.

He watches as she takes a drag from his pipe. Maybe it'll help calm her nerves, help her think, much like it does for him.]

Even if that's the case, I only want to help you. I wish you wouldn't worry about me in such a way.

[It's a roadblock in unraveling just what is going on here.]

[velluminous]

[ the first inhale—short, stressed—coats her lungs and weighs down her limbs. the second is much slower. her lashes fall low. ]

I want to see your room.

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My room? Whatever for?

[But he stands and turns, pausing to glance at her, as though he expects her to follow. He has no qualms with doing so; the fact that it's her first real request is enticingly curious, indeed.]

[velluminous]

[ one more pull... exhale, through the nose, smoke curling devilish around her face.

she follows, without answering. only wringing her hands beneath the long sleeves of Sholmes' coat. ]

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[Still no answer. He doesn't push for one this time, though, because he assumes he'll find out as soon as they enter his room.

Which they do shortly. The door's already open, beckoning them into the space that would normally be quaint if it didn't resemble an explosion of papers and books and what-nots just like in the sitting room, condensed down into a smaller area.]

Well?

[velluminous]

[ her gaze falls upon the bed, looking deeply unused, and a single twinge of remorse plucks at her. he wasn't, isn't, a happy young man.

her feet move and take her to the bedside table, buried in miscellany which she begins to furiously leaf through and under and into, opening the drawer and ruffling the contents. her ring, her key. either of these. no—the key, her key back to Reverie and then the train ride home, if she doesn't find herself whisked away again in the going.

the search quickly grows agitated. ]

[retroductions]

[She's going to make a mess. Is making a mess. Which is less the issue here, and more that Sholmes hasn't the bloodiest clue what she could be seeking, much less why she seems to adamant that it is here in his room specifically.

He steps forward.]

What are you looking for?

[Amid the chaos, she will not find her key. Or her ring.]

[velluminous]

[ which means she's trapped here.

her fingers snap closed around something solid—and she snatches it out, barely looks at it, and flings it down hard as she can. the impact resounds. the disembodied band of a mannequin bounces and lays palm-up between them while Sprezzatura shudders and quakes. white-hot and furious and destroyed. ]

I am permitted nothing!

[ the kind of guttural cry that hurts her throat, it's with such venom ]

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[The outburst... Well. It startles him. The mannequin hand—long forgotten until now—clatters loudly upon the ground, but it's nothing compared to the utter enmity in her tone.

Her actions should offend him; her attitude, unwilling to give him any direction or intent, should frustrate him even further. But he simply finds himself speechless, and perhaps... a bit concerned for her state of mind.

Sholmes merely crouches down and picks up the hand. Sets it aside on some other pile of mess that it'll be engulfed in later.]

Ms Sapione... it's really too much to see you in such a state.

[S-steps forward and offers a tentative hand on her shoulder.]

It's all right.

[velluminous]

It is nothing like that!

[ it's been building since the alley... that bubble inside her. and now it pops, completely and utterly, spilling over hot tears on her cheeks and the scent of burning heavy in the air. she is overheated, trembling, small in Sholmes' coat.

no ring, no key, no husband, no Iris, no friends, no home, no college, no cure, no fucking thesis, no reprieve no matter what she does. she's never felt so angry. ]

You... y-you... This is all wrong. I have fallen through cracks of time? Is that what this is? You too young, this flat—all wrong. I feel like ghost in this place!

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[There it is, spilling forth. The information she's kept from him, the context that can finally build the foundations of this strange tale taking shape. But all of it sounds... improbable. Fallen through the cracks of time? Too young? The flat all wrong?

Pieces slotting together. They form a fantastical picture, and yet they lend credence to certain suspicions.]

You have been here before then? Is that why you knew my flat was upstairs? Why you seek something specific in this room — left behind?

[Some part of him—empathy that still exists, despite his listlessness—informs him belatedly that quick-fire questions might not help her calm down.]

Sit, sit. Sit and breathe, my dear.

[velluminous]

[ his empathy would be right—because now she's breathing faster, harder, angrier. she shouldn't have said any of that.

totters onto her knees at the beside and rests her forehead on the edge of the mattress.

deep breaths. deep breaths. deep. ]

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[He is not good with people. As an adult, he is strange with people, but amiable enough — this personable eccentricity is not something he has yet grown into, or encouraged, by any stretch of the imagination as a teen.

So, what's a boy to do? He isn't.........sure. Sholmes lets her sit where she pleases, resting her head against his messy mattress and shuffles closer. Close enough to sit down at the edge of his bed and look down at her.]

...Would you like my pipe again?

[velluminous]

[ the softest yet his voice has been. for whatever reason, her mind can conceive of that, even with so much of it reserved for grief of all that is continually clawed back from her. her eyes sting and her face is hot, but for him, Sprezzatura makes herself look up. her hair sticks in tear tracks all the way down to her neck. her dark eyes shine like glass.

still. he's beside her, making the mattress dip under his slight weight. ]

Da... da. [ gasped as she wrings her stupid plait in both hands ] I need... I need to calm down.

[retroductions]

[A soft tone, but also an uncertain one. This situation is the equivalent of holding a baby bird with bumbling hands, and while he doesn't particularly like feeling inadequate, the priority is to get her level-headed. Comforted. It is a miserable thing, to watch someone else so miserable, too.

He can do it. He's Herlock Sholmes, after all.

He'll even give her the good tobacco, which is what he intends as he bends down and reaches under the bed for a newer pipe and a finer blend. As he gropes around, he feels his knuckles knock into a different container.

Should he...? Or... Hm.] You are free to smoke as much as you like until your nerves are quelled. But... if you feel you that you need something stronger, let me know.

[velluminous]

Stronger? What... like, what "stronger"?

[ the way she leaps at this with hardly any thought to the contrary: only the lure of oblivion for a moment, and freedom from the ache.

there is a note of suspicion in her voice. ]

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[He'd be surprised if she didn't ask for clarification, or sounded even a little dubious, despite her desire for something calming.

And Sholmes has no reason to be coy about it. This drug, after all, is restricted and yet still widely available for those seeking its use.]

Opium. I don't know how familiar you are with the substance, but it will lead to a sense of... languidness and calm that transcends anything tobacco could achieve. But it will also render you quite useless for a time.

[velluminous]

[ were he anyone but Herlock Sholmes, she might greet the idea with stony disregard. at best. drugging her—that is the start of a very foul tale...

...

... except that he is Herlock Sholmes. she trusts him implicitly, even perhaps when she ought to harbour a little more doubt.

on her knees, gazing up at a beautiful young man so close to one she loves... ]

How do you take this "opium"?

[retroductions]

[Her eyes are so dark, he thinks, even if they glisten with tears.]

It’s a paste which is vaporized in the bowl of a long pipe via lamp flame… and smoked.

[Finally, he pulls out a rather ornate-looking box and unlatches it open on the floor, revealing its insides.]

Best consumed while reclining.

[And certainly an activity that requires trust in the presence of someone else. However, pale imitation of the Sholmes she knows he may be, he is not blaggard enough to take advantage of her. Ever.]

[velluminous]

[ funny how, upon seeing the pipe, she instinctively relaxes. she knows this. right down to her stress-flushed fingers, some tension winds out. ]

I sound mad to you.

[retroductions]

[He sits up, hands on his knees, letting the accoutrements remain on display for her consideration, though he notes some tension draining from her.]

Mad? No. You sound afraid.

[Like someone desperate to return to where she came from. His brows pinch a little, glancing aside.]

And I want to assuage those fears. I simply require you to trust me enough to hand me the tools needed to do so. But first… if you like, we can take this moment to relax before you decide on what you wish to do next.

[He’ll smoke this with her if that’s what she wants. Maybe that’d make her more comfortable — maybe less. He isn’t entirely sure.]