bakerstreet | two ravens in an old oak tree

two ravens in an old oak tree

The Train to the Afterlife Meme

Congratulations: You are dead.

Maybe you know how, maybe you don't. Perhaps the memory is fuzzy, or perhaps it's crystal clear down to the look in your comrades' eyes. Maybe it was your time; you've done all you wanted to. Or maybe you weren't at all ready to go, maybe you went out kicking and screaming - but none of it matters. You know you're dead, and the train is taking you to an afterlife. Perhaps an afterlife of your choice; you might've earned that heaven. Or perhaps you've earned something else entirely.

It'll be a bit of a journey, though, so you might as well take your time and talk to the other people in your coach. Death knows no place: most of them are strangers, even from faraway worlds. But death knows no time either, so who knows, some of them may be people you know, even if last you knew, they were alive - or long gone.

Oh look, here comes the snack cart.

Post your character (bonus points for a brief description of their death and/or appearance from it), and let others reply to you. You are both dead! How is up to you, whether it's AU or canon. Characters don't know where they're headed, they just have a vague awareness of going to some sort of afterlife.

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[The light scuffling of footsteps sound outside the detective's cabin, and really, you would think that dying would be enough for that bloody limp to have gone away by now, but that's psychosomatic pain for you; always in your head. John peers inside, and smiles humorlessly with his eyes; the faint scent of gun powder and tea manifesting as part of his persona.]

This seat taken?

OOC: Something mutual for S2 could be fun (maybe they really DID blow each other up at the pool) but I'll write anything you like. We could even do some sort of alternate meeting AU where John was dying in Afghanistan and Sherlock possibly ODed or just really got banged up during a case, and they decide fuck the police ~~no offense Greg~~ they are getting off this train. You don't have to use my starter though, I'll follow wherever you lead~

[Sherlock's taken the window seat. He's not exactly sure how he's gotten here or what's happened, but he vaguely knows that this isn't a normal train. It's too sterile. Too quiet. Outside the window is just a grey sort of world like the colour itself has been leached out of every nook and cranny. If he were more susceptible to that sort of thinking, he'd take it as eerie and unsettling on a metaphysical level.

He hears the footsteps outside the door. He recognises the pattern right away. 'John.'

But if John's here, then it means they've both 'passed on'. Or whatever other politically correct way you want to put it. Death. Dying. It's something he's always been fascinated with because of the association to his work. He'd never realised how mortal he'd been until now.

When John enters Sherlock's cabin, he might notice an acrid hint of varying chemical solvents underlying the more pleasant aroma of the types of elegant soaps and shampoos Sherlock treats himself to.]

Wish I could say I was happy to see you here, but given the nature of 'here', that would be a bit 'not good'.

((OOC: We can use the Reichenbach jump failing - the sniper deciding to take John and Sherlock out after realising Sherlock's faking it. Or, maybe the fall just goes wrong and Sherlock actually dies and then something different happens to John later... or maybe a S3 thing where there's no off switch on the train car. I will leave it non-specific until you give your input. I'm also okay with anything and everything~))

A bit 'not good', yeah.

[He intones quietly, keeping up the pleasantries. It was still hard to say how they came to be here. Too much turmoil, too fast. Had Moriarty planted another bomb somewhere? Was this all just a dream?... Maybe Mrs Hudson just left London.]

Still, I hear they know how to make a decent cuppa, so there's that.

[The army doctor's hand brushes against the metal of the door frame- the cold, of which, he hesitates to admit he hardly feels- and distantly John thinks, he has been here before; somewhere in the feverish haze of the infection he contracted, before he was deemed unfit to serve his Queen and country. Carefully he takes a seat.]

…How's the view?

OOC: Oooh, I hadn't considered the Reichenbach snipers; yes, let's go with them catching on to the fall being fake/ the plan failing!

[Sherlock gives John a forced sort of smile at the tea comment. He could care less if they could make a good cuppa or if they'd serve two fingers of scotch to every passenger. He's not pleased with being here and it's only a matter of time before the stunned quiet taking over him gives way to his displeasure at being... well, dead.

Not just him, either. John, too, apparently.]

A bit grey.

[He responds, glancing back toward the window. He's sure there's supposed to be colour out there, but there isn't. There's colour inside the train, though. Would the train be the one that looks grey if you're standing outside at one of those benches waiting for it to come by, he wonders.]

Bart's... we were they just a few minutes ago, weren't we?

[Or does time work differently here? Sure, he could have jumped and miscalculated and it could be years later for John? Who knows if these astral bodies they've got look at all like themselves at the moment they'd passed.]

Yeah, at the lab. We were trying to find that computer code--

[No, that isn't right is it? Mrs. Hudson, he had got a call about her-- went to check. A flicker of recognition and something else passes behind the soldiers eyes as the pieces begin to fall back into place.]

I- you were on the roof. I got out of a cab, and you were on the roof.

[He glances up at the detective; assessing, inquiring.]

You phoned me...

[Sherlock's already running through the entire scenario in his mind. Their last conversation together. He'd imagined it seven different ways; but, like always, John had managed to surprise him with the little things. Unwillingness to stay in his place, the emotion in his voice. All of it. Those tears, the same ones he'd been planning on conjuring from the air, had been genuine because of it.]

My note...

[He looks away from John now, deciding whatever they're passing by is more interesting for the moment.]

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Something's gone wrong.

[John allows Sherlock to break the eye contact, if only because mention of 'the note' causes his own gaze to falter toward the floor; leaves a crook in his jaw.]

What was it supposed to be like, then?

[Because all that stuff about you being fake? He was not going to fall for that. Had he really been supposed to? Over the years John has been witness to many of Sherlock's characters; that one... he could do without ever hearing that one again.]

[Sherlock doesn't see any point in keeping it secret now. They're both dead and it couldn't have gone more wrong. Maybe Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson will show up at the next stop.]

Fake.

[Not him, the jump.]

It really was a magic trick. I was supposed to walk away from that jump and you.... you were supposed to walk away from it, too. But something's gone wrong. They must have realised what I'd been planning. But how... I'd taken every possible precaution.

Maybe it didn't matter. He intended to finish us, whether we played along or not.

[John closes his eyes and mentally places himself back on that ground. Sherlock, he had been up ahead, his voice in his ear. The sun, it had caught something; there had been a glint and following it, that all too familiar thunder. The memory rips through John, just as sure as the bullet had and for a moment, John is back in his haversack coat; the dark red stain spreading against his chest, arterial spray lightly speckled across his face.
He remembers now. In brief flickers, his appearance on the train reflects it too. Reflexively, John slips into one of his breathing exercises, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock. He dares not look.]

Then Moriarty... He's still alive out there.

That's not it. That wasn't part of his plan.

[That man had wanted him dragged through the mud and ruined. He didn't care about John's life or Lestrade's or Mr. Hudson's. Sherlock had been the focus from the beginning and even he lost the attention by being 'ordinary'.

Of course Sherlock notices John's breathing. He can hear the constricting quality of his only friend's voice. PTSD. That's what the therapist had given John as a diagnosis, but it's not as simple as that. John seeks danger for the high he gets from the adrenaline. This is addiction, coasting through the high from pushing past the limits. And maybe there's a hint of PTSD mixed in there somewhere.

He's not going to say anything about it for the moment.]

Moriarty's dead. He killed himself up on top of that roof because he knew that he was the only one who could call everything off. He'd done it to put me in the corner. You were just a hostage, nothing more.

Dead? Huh... There's good news for London.

[John's breathe pattern shifts, the surprise of that statement temporarily throwing him off. As futile as it would be with the majority cabin doors shut, he can't help but risk a glance in the hallway to make sure the consulting criminal isn't just sitting right across.]

Then whoever did it, they acted on their own. D'you think someone was planning to betray him? Or was there some third party we didn't even consider in all this?

[He runs a hand over his face. God, he's so lost.]

What if someone didn't know he planned to off himself?

[Sherlock realises he's not giving all the details to John now that he's asking all those questions. He shakes his head slowly.]

I'm not sure. I know there were snipers. Three of them, one for you, one for Lestrade, and one for Mrs. Hudson. The one for you was in the area around Bart's, obviously.

[And he hasn't had a chance or a moment to look into the snipers or anything else. All he's got to go on are the parting words Moriarty had left him with, which isn't helpful in the slightest. Everyone will die unless he jumps.]

It's possible the sniper was upset by Moriarty's suicide and acted out of vengeance, but it's also possible that they realised what my plan had been and decided to ensure I'd die from that jump. It would defeat the purpose of my 'suicide' to find a bullet wound, so they may have rationalised killing you to make things even.

[It's just like him to sit and calmly theorise about his own murder. Knowing John's been killed too is more troubling.]

I just... everything is a guess. I don't have the data.

[John's eyes narrow. Snipers. So that is what he saw. This time John does look himself over for signs of injury because if he could be data... It's no use. What would Sherlock assess from his bullet wound? The trajectory of the shot? Useless. His eyes dart to the hallway again, this time wishing Moriarty was in the adjacent car because then they could at least interrogate the bastard and get an answer to something!!... John sighs.]

Mrs. Hudson was fine when I saw her and Lestrade's got the whole of Scotland Yard, they'd be mad to attempt anything there.

[Whether he says this to convince Sherlock or himself, even John is not sure. He continues on carefully.]

You're right. There would be nothing to gain by taking them out after you were gone. Moriarty, he wanted everyone to believe you were a sham... I wasn't about to let that happen.

[Sherlock doesn't look very convinced when John tries to rationalise Lestrade's and Mrs. Hudson's safety.]

Don't underestimate Moriarty's web. [Not that it matters now.] The sniper could be anyone. It could be Anderson - well, maybe not Anderson. They'd want someone capable - but, you see the point.

[He's sure about one thing. If there is an afterlife and this isn't some comatose hallucination - which given his aptitude for geographic thought is a perfectly sound possibility - then if they're not on the same train as Jim Moriarty, they'd see Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if those two have been killed.]

I'm not sure my actual death was necessary at all in Moriarty's eyes. As long as the world saw me as dead, then that's what mattered... the sniper must have acted on his own agenda. It's the only thing that makes sense taking everything else into consideration.

Then--

[Temporary relief flows into his previously tense shoulders. Sniper's own agenda. Not his fault.]

You don't think they might have bugged the phone. That they figured it out, because I wasn't listening...

[It isn't a question so much as a plea for confirmation; because that is what this all boiled down to. That he, John, might be responsible for his own and his best friend's death because he was too daft to play along with a fictional suicide scenario he took far too seriously.
It's stupid to think that way, he is perfectly aware of that, but he needs to know.]

[Sherlock openly scoffs when John starts on that line of thought.]

You're joking.

[He realises after he's said that that John isn't joking. He's seriously thinking that he's got something to do with the sniper shooting them. It's preposterous and Sherlock can't not ridicule him by rolling his eyes.]

For God's sake, John. You were acting naturally, so how could it possibly be your fault. There was nothing out of character about your performance to alert anyone you could have possibly known what was going on. And for that matter, you weren't at all important to Moriarty. If anything, he viewed you like a gerbil or some other insignificant pet.

[Sherlock hadn't viewed John that way, but he doesn't think to say that much.]

Ungh, don't remind me.

[John pinches his brow in his disgust. If he never has to hear that Irish lilt speaking his name as if he were some object of belonging, it will be all too soon. Still... the relief is there. Those words are what he needed to hear and it shows when John's posture eases considerably. He puffs out a breathe, fingers just a bit twitchy with nothing else to occupy them.]

Bloody, awful service they have running here. You'd think they'd give us a pamphlet or something.

[John's comment on the train service has Sherlock leaning forward and looking around. There's nothing to see. It seems mostly empty except for the two of them, which is a bit odd. Knowing the world mortality rates, there should be 161 people entering the train per minute, but that's not happening.]

Do you think this is it?

[He falls back against his seat. The impending boredom is already enough to make him start feeling twitchy.]

Death. The afterlife. Is it just this?

...

Are we in Hell?

[John grimaces darkly. 'Well I killed a guy, what did you do? They don't put you in hell for being an insensitive git'- but he stops that thought short, remembering how friendly his sig sauer once looked, alone in his bedsit. Suicide. Ah.]

Nah. I mean, it's a train. We're going somewhere. Why not bother to make it look like a waiting room, if that's all it is.

[Goodness knows they have seen enough of those.]

If that's the case, they've severely underestimated how manageable we are when we get bored... What do you think it takes to get kicked out of a place like this?

[Well, Sherlock hadn't meant to kill himself. But he has had some rather uncharitable thoughts toward his kin and he's certainly fantasized about murdering most of the people he knows, so depending on which religion you've chosen and how closely you read the corresponding book, then he may have earned his way to hell based on that alone.]

So, you think it's not just... this.

[He's sounding bitter and displeased anyway. God only knows how long they're going to be sitting around in this waiting room on tracks. Literally, maybe. He's still not all that sure about God being more than a construct of the mind and societal need for rules.]

We could try the door.

[That would be boring if it worked, but it's the path of least resistance.]

We could, yeah.

[John has to agree there. If Moriarty or someone else had seen through it; surely the powers that be had too. Not that it matters much; except that if this is supposed to hell, Sherlock is here by mistake.]

Yeah, okay.

[Not the door to their cabin, John had already opened that one when he first came in to sit down. No they needed to check the emergency exits, the engine room, maybe even see who is driving this thing. Carefully he gets up, the purpose of having something to do alone, curing the jitter threatening to overwhelm his limbs.]

Which do we check first?

[Once John's agreed to it, Sherlock stands up and looks down at the other man until he stands too. There's no bullet hole as far as he can see. No blood. It's just like he's standing there talking to John before any of this had happened. He's even wearing the same outfit he'd been wearing. Probably down to the socks.]

There should be an emergency escape in every carriage. We can start there, and if it's bolted shut, we can pick a direction and keep moving.

[Sherlock doesn't care who's driving this train, so he doesn't think about checking on it. He just wants off.

There's a voice in the back of his head asking:
'Do you suppose this is how ghosts are made?'
'Oh, Sherlock. You know there's no such thing as ghosts.'
'But Uncle Rudy said...'
'Don't be stupid.']

Or find some way to unbolt it.

[John confirms, all determination and purpose. The trouble is, even with a direction chosen, the corridors seem to be a lot longer than previously anticipated. Forsaking proper social conventions in the interest of discovery, he pushes the occasional cabin door open, to check for any other possible inhabitants aboard. He can apologize later, this is more important.]

Hmm, could have sworn there was at least the trolley about..

[Another flash of something overtakes his vision; so fast, at first it seems as though the overhead light is merely flickering out; but then with each step the duration seems a lot longer; a lot brighter, until John swears for just a second he sees the rounded off metal walls replaced with a building's sterile, white ones. He stops mid stride, just as quickly it is gone.]

Sherlock...?

[Sherlock hums at that, putting the thought of looking for tools on the way out in the semi-back part of his mind. They may as well anticipate finding locked doors and having to fight their way out, since it beats walking around in circles.]

A trolley?

[John handles checking the other cabin doors while Sherlock has a look around at everything else. The inside portions of the cabins just seem identical to the one they'd been sharing shortly before. Right down to the same toolmarks on the panelling, which for someone like Sherlock is more than a little troubling. It makes no sense. It's physically impossible. But this isn't exactly physical.]

I didn't see it. Actually, I haven't been out of the cabin at all until now.

[He looks up at the light fixtures when they flash. He's more curious than disturbed by it, since this place seems to rely on the same distorted physics as his Mind Palace. Are they related? Or is it just something to designed to unnerve them?

But what about that wall?]

I saw it too.

[He breaks away from John's side to run his hand over the metal panelling. It feels like he'd expect it to.]

Maybe they don't like us getting out of our seats.

[He turns his head to glance back the way they'd come, but the lights have all gone out in that direction. The darkness is thick enough to consume any light shining in its direction. Even with his above-average night-vision, he's unable to see anything more than two feet down. An abyss.]

[As much as the doctor is relieved to know Sherlock witnessed the same bizarre imagery, the feeling is short lived when he takes in how complete and utterly void of light the hallways they recently passed through have become.

Captain Watson does not do well with battles he can't tangibly establish. He needs an enemy to fight, a person to save, a threat to run from, but here he is contemplating a fight or flight response and it's all in reaction to a bit of dark.

Reflexively John takes a step closer to the detective, before turning to fixate his gaze on the light fixture directly overhead. If it also goes out...]

I think we had better get to that door.

Room for one more?

Always :3

fantastic ♥

:3

X3

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Can I just say, I've been loving this

:3

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