bakerstreet | Ghost Hunting Meme

Ghost Hunting Meme

Maybe you're part of one of those big paranormal research societies that have their own TV show, top of the line equipment, and everything. Maybe you're an aspiring director who's noticed the boom of paranormal TV shows lately and decided ~~to cash in~~ the time is right for your art. Or maybe you and your friends just decided that messing around in someplace that's supposed to be haunted sounded like a fun way to spend an evening, especially when there may or may not be beer involved. Whatever the reason may be, you've decided to go

GHOST HUNTING

Choose your haunting, or let he RNG pick for you:

1. Setting Up: You're on location, and the locals have told you about the place's super creepy history and why it's definitely haunted. It's time to start unpacking your gear and encountering some ghosts. You just noticed that the clouds in the sky are forming an X over the location - just like the electrical tape X's you used to mark locations for your infrared cameras! - so you know you're going to get a lot of activity tonight.

2. YOU GUYS WHAT WAS THAT NOISE: There's no way that was just the building settling, and wind definitely doesn't make a sound like that! Clearly, something paranormal is afoot (a spooky, disembodied foot) here.

3. Era Cues: One of the best ways to draw out ghosts is through the use of stimuli from the era in which they died - so put on some oldschool jazz, light up a cigar, and start cooking some down-home southern cuisine. It's for science!

4. EVP Time: Your completely uncalibrated EMF detector just started spiking, and you may or may not have felt a cold breeze just now, so the spirits must be with you! Switch on that tape recorder and start asking them some questions, and maybe you'll be able to pick their responses out of the background noise (what is "pareidolia," anyway?)

5. Motion Detector Mayhem: The device you bought to make a horrific racket if anything moves is making a horrific racket, and what could possibly move in an empty, dark room where your teammates totally haven't been except for a ghost? You haven't even seen any huge moths since you began this investigation, so it has to be something paranormal!

6. COME AT ME BRO: Provoking the ghosts is a really good idea. Shouting and posturing at the air like a tough guy makes you look cool, and it's always the best way to-- oh god, did something just scratch you?!

7. The Infrared Camera Just Caught Something: Or maybe it was the ultraviolet camera, or hell, maybe even the regular old visible light camera. Either way, it definitely wasn't one of your teammates sneaking off to take a leak or a smoke without telling anyone else like it was the last four times, because everyone is finally present and accounted for. Which leaves only one thing it could be...

8. That Object Just Moved!: Despite the fact that you finally wised up and placed the trigger object far away from anything that you could trip over or hit with your camera, it just fell over. And that piece of concrete that just landed next to your foot? It totally didn't come from the ceiling - it had to have been thrown by something.

9. Possession: Suddenly, one of your teammates can't quite seem to remember his last name, and is talking about how he'll "scuttle your legs" - or maybe he's talking about how this place fills him with demonic rage, or just acting dumber than usual. Either way, he's obviously been possessed by an entity!

10. Other/Pick One: Choose your own haunting.

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[Being "dead" has a slew of disadvantages. One is being unable to access your own belongings, since no one thinks you need them anymore. But Sherlock has a lot of really useful belongings, and his "death" is not being spent doing what most corpses do. And unfortunately, he really needs access to his equipment right now.

It's not difficult to break in to 221B Baker Street. Hell, everyone seemed to be able to do it. He gets in through the window to his own room, then heads downstairs. Mrs. Hudson has packed most of his things into boxes, which is inconvenient, because he had a system. Perhaps it looked like chaos to everyone else, but dammit, it's going to take much longer than he'd planned to just even find what he needs.

So he's tearing through boxes as quietly and as non-disruptively as he can manage. Microscope in one box, but where on earth are the slides? Digging further only uncovers his violin, which he puts aside for later. Come on, come on... Slides! Where are the slides! He almost yells down at Mrs. Hudson out of habit, but catches himself at the last second. No, no, can't get too comfortable...]

[John comes back to the flat periodically, usually only for minutes at a time. Then, he's unable to stand it, and hurries out again. Today, he's sworn to himself to spend a full thirty minutes there, just sitting. It's taking a lot of effort, and the poor man tries hyperfocusing on the things around him for distraction. Unfortunately, everything in the room reminds him of--

Knitting his brows, the doctor glances up. Mrs. Hudson often rifles through Sherlock's things, he knows, trying to make sense of it, getting ready to ship it all off to a school, or some such place. But, John knows that Mrs. Hudson is, in fact, not upstairs at the moment. Which is why his stomach turns. Not because of hope... God knows, he's gone through the mill with hope. It's anger. Because it can't be Sherlock up there, it must be some sort of intruder.

And John takes it personally, the way he did when Sherlock's reputation was brought under siege. Why is why he quickly, as quietly as he can, limps toward the stairs.]

[Due to Mrs. Hudson's flagrant disregard for Sherlock's organisational system, he's still in the midst of his search. instead of just tossing things here and there, it made more sense to put them where they belong – books on the shelves, the skull on the left side of the fireplace mantel, the knife right in the same groove he created when he'd originally skewed some important papers with it, et cetera, et cetera. Sherlock has mentally catalogued what goes where, so it'll be easier just to pack it all up again when he's finished. Unfortunately, he has pretty much completely unpacked four boxes using this method, and there's still no sign of the damn microscope slides.

All the movement and rustling of packing paper and thinking – including half-finished sentences to the skull, still not as good a conversationalist as John – makes a fair bit of noise, even when he's trying to be quiet. So it's not until he's finished assembling his music stand and reaches, in a rare moment of silence, for the next item that he hears it.

His hand freezes just above the box. Footsteps. On the stairs. From the distance, due to enter the room in ten – no, twenty seconds. Because the footsteps are accommodating a limp. A very familiar one, at that.

Twenty seconds. Bloody foolish, he should have been paying more attention, but just being back in his old living room caused familiar thought patterns to spring up. False sense of security. It's physically impossible to put everything back and still effectively vanish from sight in that length of time. Well, fifteen seconds now. Fourteen, thirteen... Sherlock is frozen in his old easy chair, a sudden crisis of conscience – sentiment – forcing him to consider just letting John see him. No, that's pure selfishness, he hasn't even begun to go after Moriarty's forces, John and everyone else might be dead within hours if Sherlock gave into bloody emotion.

Eight seconds.

He springs to his feet, darting out of sight of anyone who might be walking into the living room from the staircase. The kitchen doesn't provide much cover, but he has no other choice, as its only exit is the same corridor John will be using. He'll have to wait until John's in the living room and then slip out through the kitchen door. He melts as close to the wall as he can, his back to the living room, forcing his breath to a slow, inaudible pace.

One second...]

[Time's up, and there's John at the door, oddly out of breath, as if he limped his very fastest to get there. He stands rigid, his eyes scanning the room, searching for anything out of place. For the intruder that he knew must be there, because although he imagines up a limp, he doesn't have auditory hallucinations. Someone was there.

... And suddenly, he has odd flashbacks of what Sherlock might have done in this sort of situation. John moves toward the windows, glancing out, frowning determinedly. There's no sign of forced entry, and no one particularly suspicious outside. Of course, they could have easily come through the door... pretty much anyone could. And, if they were smart, they wouldn't be dashing around the street after a break-in.

A headache begins to form, and John wearily puts his free hand on his forehead. Well, they had to have taken something, right? Whoever had broken in knew who had lived in the flat, more than likely. So, it didn't matter whether it was some intelligent criminal, or a crazed fan. They would've been determined. Probably wouldn't have left empty-handed.]

... Dammit, Sherlock. Don't... bloody... put words in my head.

[Because that's pretty much what happened. John massages his temples.]

Okay, no. You know what? It was nothing. I'm bloody crazy.

[Even though he knows he's not. Trying to reason his way through all of this is too familiar, too painful. His drive to protect Sherlock's things is still there, but a wave of grief washes over him as he sinks into his chair.]

[Although he can't see it, Sherlock can map out John's position from the footsteps in the adjacent room. Headed to the window. Pausing. Sherlock can't move yet, he'd still be in plain view if John happened to turn round and look out into the hall...

Sherlock nearly starts when he hears himself addressed. John can't have put it all together so soon, he's just not that quick—

No no no, wrong. "Don't put words in my head?" John's thinking, reminded of something. Reminded of him. Maybe he hasn't noticed the unpacking job yet, Sherlock expects a bigger reaction at that, which is why it's imperative he's not still here when it happens.

So John isn't addressing him. Well, he is, but he doesn't know Sherlock is here after all. Why would you talk to a dead man? —Well, okay, he's talked to that skull plenty. Why would John talk to a dead man? One whose skull wasn't in the room... supposedly. Why is John even here? Sherlock didn't think he came back to 221B anymore. He even cased the flat days in advance to make sure no one would appear to interrupt his own visit.

This surely goes into the realm of sentiment. Nostalgia, grief, all those sort of emotions Sherlock himself is trying to bury in work. He should never have underestimated John's bleeding heart. He's growing angry, but mostly at himself for overlooking one of his friend's most important qualities.

Yes, John, can you hear that, if you're apparently hearing Sherlock in your head? He said important qualities. Except it might very well endanger both their lives and others if Sherlock can't get out of this room unseen. And now John's only feet away, in that chair. Perhaps he can inch toward the kitchen door now, taking the utmost precaution not to make a sound.]

[John can't hear the real Sherlock in his head, because he's stuck with his own muddled thoughts. Meanwhile, he's trying to drown them out with some mantra his therapist has added to the list of things he should be doing to get over all of this. But, of course, it hasn't been working. Mostly his own fault, but it's just so damn hard to not... think about it...]

Stupid. This... is ridiculous. I'm out of my head.

[He glances around at the room, as if forcing himself to look will improve things. Nope. He sees ghosts of the two of them moving around the room, of clients sitting, stupefied, of Mrs. Hudson straightening up--

Ah. John starts, leaning forward suddenly in his chair. Speaking of Mrs. Hudson, he knew for a fact that she had been packing away Sherlock's things, planning on taking them far away from Baker Street. So, why was the lot out of its boxes again, as if--

He jumps to his feet suddenly, pressing against the cane. Someone really was going through those boxes. Someone who was looking for something specific. John glances at them, his mind working at maximum Watson capacity. If they had gotten what they wanted, wouldn't they be indiscreet? And that would mean putting the things back, not making it look like an obvious break-in. This is what he thought.

So, had they not found what they were looking for? ... Were they planning on trying again?

He glances slowly toward the door, eyes wide.]

... Hello?

[Oh, there it is, the leap of logic Sherlock has been dreading. No, he can't answer. Instead he tries to slip as quietly as possible out the door before John comes to inspect the kitchen. The light's off but the natural daylight from outside is luminous enough that he might look like a passing shadow on the edge of someone's field of vision.

He hugs the wall in the corridor, raising his chin and taking a slow, painful, but silent breath. He listens again for more noise, more movement. It would be so easy just to answer, to end the charade now. But that would jeopardise everything, for foolish emotions. For the guilt over lying to a dear friend. It's better this way. Isn't that what people say when there's nothing to be done about a terrible situation? Convince themselves this is the best option. Numb themselves to how horrific the decision feels.

Yes, yes, it is better this way...]

[John doesn't, in fact, inspect the kitchen. It's not particularly big, and one glance from the other room is enough to assure him that there's no one there. He moves from that spot to the doorway, peering into the hall, his brows still together in a frustrated, yet determined stare.

... But, he doesn't call out into the hallway. Because, realy, Mrs. Hudson could have easily been the one who was going through the boxes. She could have been looking for something. It wasn't strange at all. And here he was, imagining up scenarios, only proving the case that he'd become a bit touched in the head.

Now, he was angry on top of everything else. Fighting the urge to just start yelling out curses in an attempt to make himself feel better, John moves back into the room, falling into his chair as if his energy had left him completely. He was a fool, and he knew it. Looking for mysteries and strange occurrences among the ordinary was only another of his attempts to bring back his old life. His old life, which was dead and gone.

Defeated, tired, he lowers his head. Just, damn it all.]

[He's disappointed. You gave up far quicker than he expected, John. Which is good, isn't it? Sherlock can make a clean and easy escape now.

But he doesn't. Because the John Watson he knew didn't accept defeat this quickly. He was a soldier; a fighter. And something draws Sherlock back to that doorway, through which dozens of cases and adventures and friends entered and exited. He lingers there, watching his friend, in plain view, if only John happened to look up.

He's sickened by the sight. This is what his absence has driven his best friend to. How is this better? He almost steps forward to put a hand on John's shoulder, to end this all right now. But how can Sherlock face him, even if all the danger had passed? How can he possibly ask for forgiveness for something of this magnitude? I didn't think you'd be reduced to this. I didn't think I'd be this difficult for you to live without.

Instead, he melts back into the shadow of the hallway. He has to leave. He has things to do. The sentiment is only getting in the way.

But he pauses for a moment longer, and murmurs, only just audible in the silence of the flat:]

I'm sorry, John.

[Then he's already moving, fleeing, taking flight. Down the hall; he can fit through the window in the washroom just fine. And maybe he does want John to be able to catch a glimpse of his exit, although he won't stop. Because he knows now that some people just can't live without a glimmer of hope.]

[That voice. He's not imagining that voice. Sometimes, he's heard echoes of it, commenting on various things and people here and there, but that's just him losing it, isn't it? But now, in the flat, he hears a few words that belong exclusively to Sherlock Holmes. And he's on his feet before he even realizes it, and absolutely does not notice his cane clatter to the floor.]

Sh--... Sherlock?

[John knows full well that his former flatmate won't be standing in the hall when he bursts in, but he was there. He was, dammit, and no one can convince him otherwise. Just as everyone believed him to be a fraud, John had that hundred percent mindset. And he has it now, staring into the empty hallway, breathing as if he's just run a marathon.

He doesn't rub his temples, close his eyes, sink to the weary abscesses of his mind. Not now. Because that's not what you do once you've witnesses a tiny miracle, is it? And John knows what miracles look like, having lived through war. This is just another battle with a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

John doesn't return to the other room for a good ten minutes, instead looking forward at the door and windows, as if he expects Sherlock to reemerge. Of course, he won't; if the great detective really faked his death, he won't jeopardize it. John knows all about Sherlock's control over his emotions(?), and he won't be back in a moment of weakness. His friend was much too smart and controlled than that.

But, those three tiny words spoken into the silence fulfill their purpose. And this time, when he leaves the flat, he doesn't come back for a long time. Even then, it's just to retrieve the forgotten cane.]

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Ghost Hunting Meme

John Watson | BBC Sherlock

8 + A TWIST = ... i'm going to hell.

I'LL SEE YOU THERE

WE'LL SHAKE HANDS THERE LIKE SHERLOCK AND MORIARTY

... HOOOOIIII

i'm soooo changeable!

playing jim from oooiiteeeee

playing gaaaaay

everything i could say has already crossed your moooiiiind

then my answer has probably crossed yours.

DRAMATIC BUILDUP TO NEXT SEASON