finalflight | OPEN POST; [ SHERLOCK HOLMES / ACD/GRANADA ]

[ knock knock! she gulps down a frantic breath and pushes herself as far from the door (locked) as she can.

fuck! fuck! fuck!

no one can see as she gesticulates at the air, but he may hear the quiet, vexed sound of self-annoyance. next, the clinking of bottles and porcelain as she turns about the room—

IS THAT A SECOND DOOR?? ]

[Sure, there can be a second door. Who’s to say where to leads, because a certain doctor’s room is actually on the floor above.

But maybe it leads to a small room, used only by Mrs Hudson, perhaps as storage for items needed for preparing whatever Holmes eventually calls out for on the daily.

Either way, she can go through that adjoining door if she really wants to. Strangely, no further noise from the man on the other side.]

[ all she is doing is locking herself in smaller and smaller rooms, a rat in a maze. but she can't think now, the man's voice rattling in her mind. that she's been caught elicits the deepest sense of—fear.

she tries to find a lock for the second door, too. but no dice. ]

Cyka blyat!

[Dear Sprezzatura, it ultimately does not matter. The only way out of the flat itself is back down the stairs, and Holmes already has retreated back to the top of the stairwell, choosing to wait rather than chase. Considering lighting his pipe to kill the time until she’s brave enough to come out.]

Edited (SHUT UP ) 2025-06-11 04:41 (UTC)

[ it is her way. she locks herself up.

for a while, she waits in that terrible silence, twitching her hands through her hair and over her face. straining to hear anything over her pulse, her breathing.

she realizes what's happening, of course. the element of being trapped. nowhere to go but past who she hides from. but it's her pride. she can't give in, not even when freedom is on the line.

a little longer. finally the burn of threatening tears and aching throat recedes, at least enough for her to settle. crumpling down into a corner of the smaller room, like a cat in a terrible new place, with her eyes on the door.

not coming out. not until she has rested enough to... recover some magic. or until he forces his way in. this may be a while. ]

[He waits and waits and waits. He is good about waiting, you see, having sent away clients before on a bluff, and hoping that they will return — and it has only backfired on him once. Holmes leans against the stairwell—sometimes propping himself up to sit on it precariously—smoking until he goes through one pipe, two, then three. The corridor is foggy with tobacco by the time he begins to wonder if she really intends to outwait him; it is lucky Mrs Hudson is out today, because she'd question his lingering out here, turning the place foggy with his smoke, and he would have to shoo her away with a lie, because he still isn't quite sure how to explain what's happening. The effort is saved for now.

Anyway. She'll come out. He'll wait. He's stubborn, too, and maybe he returns once into 221B's sitting room to gather some reading material and head back out, but that's the only time she'll hear his footsteps.]

[ those few movements more than enough to root her back to the spot, overriding her keener instinct to pace. she smells tobacco and longs for her own pipe.

her body beginning to ache from staying in the one position for so long. her stomach grumbling. her eyes bruised-feeling, aching, and sore. she cannot tell whether hours pass or it merely feels that way. she flexes her fingers and strains her ears, waiting for the moment he loses his patience with an intruder in his home.

this is the kind of fear her great-grandparents must have felt, knowing a human waited on the other side of the door.

...

don't fall asleep. ]

[It isn’t hours, but it feels like it. Enough to make it to the end of his book, which, while of interest in many aspects, still pales in comparison to the mystery lingering inside his flat.

By the time he’s done, really, he’s finished another pipe, and the minutes tick on and on. He’s come to realize that she does intend to remain in there for ages, which is indicative of fear — of harm? Of discovery? Well, the latter is a foregone conclusion, so it must be the former.

Holmes sighs, breathing out one more plume of smoke, then returns to the interior of his flat. If she’s not going to come out, he’s at least not going to deny himself of earthly comforts like being able to sit down in a proper chair.

Calls out to that locked door-]

You can at least tell me what you were seeking!

[He seems to recall the mess she’s made of things, now that he lays his eyes upon it again. He wonders if there's any pattern to be found in the chaos.]

[ he has a clear, strident voice. cutting through to the heart, a voice like that. it makes her heart clench when it rings through out of the long passing of silence—Sprezzatura tenses, digs her claws into her palms.

reaches for the Weave...

is it there?

oh, barely.

murmured, to herself, to Mystra: ] Hurry...

[ it is his bookshelves which are ransacked. anything that looks to be of note on this world and the people in it. his drawers, too, opened. as though she was looking for something specific of his. a spellbook, perhaps. ]

[Well, she was going to be very disappointed, either way, because he certainly does not have a spellbook,

Ironically, the nature of the mess tells him little. "Looking for anything of note on this world and the people in it" is a rather wide net, because she could really be looking for anything at all; many of these files are old cases, or a compendium of notable people he's clipped out of the paper. Estbalishments in and around all of Great Britain, both old and new. He does notice, however, that she has left all of his accoutrements and notes revolving around scientific topics alone. (Presumably, she did not make a mess of his chemistry set...)

God, where to start? He spins on a heel, plucks up one book in particular from the mess, flips through its pages. It tells him nothing, ultimately.]

I can help you, you know, find whatever it is you're looking for. Given there's obvious desperation in the tumult and storm you've set upon my flat, I'd even feel comfortable in remitting the fee.

[Eyes drifting to the locked door again.]

[ he's right. none of his scientific accoutrements have been disturbed... at least, not to any such degree as the rest. caught in the crossfire, more like.

what is he talking about, fee? her heart sinks even deeper, her limbs deaden. he will not let her leave, so he has turned to bargaining. but why does he not break open the door?

magic sparks at her mind, but not enough to do anything... substantial. his patience must be running thin for him to engage with her like this.

she covers her face, and even Holmes will hear the low moaning sound coming from behind the door. in equal parts, there is frustration and hopelessness and anger. ]

[He doesn’t wish to break down the door because he doesn’t want to frighten her more than she already is — what would be the point of that? He is a curious man, not a cruel one.

Those sounds of hers, emanating from that tiny washroom… Oh, she’s doing the opposite of calming down, isn’t she? Time has allotted her nothing helpful. Holmes stares at the door for a moment more, officially deciding on another route, which calls for him to cross over to closer and…

Knock. Gently.]

Come out, madam. No one is going to hurt you.

[ a thump! as she lunges up and braces on the other side of the door.

the voice which comes through is low, hoarse, accented as if by Russian. ]

No! I am going to be killed!

[Russian accent? This becomes stranger by the moment.]

Kill you? And whoever would do such a thing?

[Still, he waits, book still clucthed in one hand, for her answer. It would not be the most harrowing thing he's heard, and it would lend credence as to why she's here, but not why she hides from him.

Why, it's almost as though she wasn't here to meet him at all; nor steal anything away that belonged to him, specifically. He is beginning to suspect that this is all randomness, and that she has somehow found his flat by happenstance.]

[ what is he talking about? does he not possess eyes? or did he not properly see? that must be it, or else this human man in a world seemingly without devil children at all would be much more emphatic about getting her out of his home.

she finds her throat tightly closed up, an acute gnawing pain. she touches the forming bruises on her arms, her legs, and doesn't answer him. ]

[He saw but a blur of blue and horns disappear into the washroom. For all he knows—and via all that is actually possible, as he knows it—this is mere costume, and while potentially related to her fear, it is unlikely to be the full source of it.

He is, of course, very wrong. Sherlock Holmes is not always correct, nor does he pretend to be, but he cannot verify this one way or another until he sees her.

Still no reply.]

Will a proper introduction ease those nerves, I wonder? [He's going to give one, anyway. Better he remain a stranger less and less, if it eases the trepidation even by the smallest degree.] My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am a consulting detective of some repute. And you, my dear, would not be the first person to walk into these rooms for fear of their life, or to request my aid in resolving some strange, terrible problem.

So! If your feet were not guided to 221B intentionally, then consider it a fortunate twist of fate, instead. One that you should undoubtedly take advantage of.

[ he will not give up and that is clear now.

from the far side of the door, sounding, at last... closer? ]

And what are you making of devils walking in skin of man, Mister Sherlock Holmes?

[Closer is progress, a slow improvement. But this is a marathon, not a race.

But… devils in the skin of man?]

I would say that I’ve faced my share, and often find them lacking compared to those who walk a path of kindness, instead.

[ quieter, ] I speak not of morality.

[Well, now he is certainly getting the distinctly fascinating notion that this may be well beyond what he's expecting.]

Then if you are speaking literally, I'd have to admit I've never had the pleasure of properly meeting one.

[??]

[ the door slams open—yes, slams, Sprezzatura buoyed on a wave of masochism and emotion. every part of her anticipating consequence and her pride unable to let her continue cowering behind closed doors.

she does not look well. the left side of her face swollen and bruised; her lip split, eyebrow cut; hair hanging around her face, which is, of course, blue and horned and undeniably devilish. ]

I do not play games, Mister Holmes.

[ her voice shakes, but she manages some degree of elegance as well, even if it's as fragile as cracked porcelain. ]

[HELLO??? HE WAS STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO THE DOOR--

She comes upon him like a storm, and Holmes is not so infallible that he's immune to the pure shock and surprise of it. Stepping back on startled instinct is all that saves him from getting his poor aquiline nose smashed in, probably.

Who stands before him is a woman, certainly. An injured one, quite obviously. Running on the fumes of exacerbated emotion, most definitely. But the color of her skin, her horns atop her head. The strangeness of her eyes, and is that the tuft of a long tail he perceives? The question concerning devils is an apt one. Immediately, he seeks proof of this being a farce, a well-constructed disguise that would make even he envious, but he sees none. Where she bleeds, it is most evident that this is her pure flesh and blood that has been attacked, no doubt, by those frightened by her visage. And why wouldn't they be?

Even Holmes, ever the bohemian, is not immune to the immediate biases of a Victorian upbringing, living in a world where people do not look as such. How is this possible, he wonders, and is she dangerous? Has the devil itself graced his flat on this day, and for what reason? His mind whirs, gears shifting and spinning.]

...No. I see that this is quite a serious matter.

[But it is evidence and action, ultimately, that overrides all else, as it often does. She is scared, she is hiding, she is probably very, very lost. And she has already been so accosted, figuratively and literally, by the flagrant disdain for all those who appear different. No, there's more to it than a demon now standing before him; set aside her appearance, and everything about her feels very human.

He steps back, regaining his composure — gestures a splayed hand towards one of the chairs beyond him, next to the fireplace.]

You're hurt. Please, sit. I am no medical professional— [ironically, that is not the man who found her here today] —but I still have enough knowledge to tend to such... injuries.

OPEN POST; [ SHERLOCK HOLMES / ACD/GRANADA ]

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