bakerstreet | last night, i dreamt i was a muffler.

[ avoiding number three for obvious reasons !! ♥ ]

[Maaaaan humans are weird enough as it is, let alone their flippin' dreams. At least it hopefully won't be boring.]

[ except that she isn't a human . she's completely alone -- and this looks more like a wasteland than any kind of dream a child should be having .

she glances around , a worried expression on her face . ]

H-Hello...? Is anybody here?

[... Oh Anonymous. How does she keep being saddled with these types. Still, at least she isn't about to vomit diabetes and ride metal unicorns.]

Asking for "anybody" is pretty vague, kid. You might not like who shows up if you ask for that.

[That said, she waves rather cheerfully. Just to be dissonant more than friendly.]

Yo.

[No number three please.]

[It's raining, lightening and thunder filled the sky. On the ground below running through the forest of nineteenth century England, Lizzie Bennet. Her dress was covered in mud and blood. Of course the blood wasn't her own. It belonged to zombies she slayed.

But the grounds where too moist, too soft now. The dead were coming back to life too fast. Lizzie was overwhelmed. Her katana was held tightly in her hand as she made her way through the dark.

Shelter. She thought as she looked around making sure to pay attention to the world around her. I need shelter. If she was going to survive. She needed to get out of the rain.]

[There's just something about early nineteenth century, English-countryside rain that always seem to please the Doctor. So, he's outside, with a loud, rainbow umbrella, playing and splashing around on the wet grass.]

[Lizzie could here the collecting the groans of several gathering unmentionables. She needed to lose them. And with the rain and thunder it would be rather easy. She stopped in her tracks when things took a turn. A flash of color in the rainy night. A man in a suit splashing and playing in the rain?

Does he not know of the dangers of this action? Foolish man. His umbrella alone is like a single waving the undead in his direction.] UGH! [Lizzie took an oath to protect all of England from Satan's army. Even the dumb.]

[She ran toward him. Every now and then she turned to look over her shoulder to spot any sorrow stricken.] What are you doing? The grounds are moist the unmentionables are many in numbers.

We must take shelter, sir.

[The Doctor spins around towards the woman's voice, grinning, his face streaked and his floppy hair wet with rain.]

Afraid you'll get sick? No need to worry; I'm the Doctor. Oh, why don't you join me? It's really fun.

A doctor. [Lizzie scowls as she grows nearer.] Then you, sir, should be of knowledge that the only illness to fear is that of the stricken. [It's quite clear to her that this man might be mad.]

You must follow me. My family's manner is not too far off. [If they were lucky they'd make it there with all their limbs.]

Oh, alright. If you're afraid of getting sick, come into the TARDIS and dry off. [He turns round and unlocks the door.]

[ avoiding number three because obvious reasons !! ♥ ]

(OOC: Want to set it up? It's Lily's dream, after all.)

[ so hey , azure ! i hope you're ready for this little girl's dream -- because it's pretty wacky .

lily herself was a very wacky child -- exuberant and bright . and her dreams apparently were just as bright as her personality was ! and with a pretty crazy twist , too . here you'll find the tiny baskerville balancing on the tips of her toes on a frosted cake . it doesn't seem as though the cake is staining her tiny little shoes -- the girl jumping without a bit of hesitance as she dove right into the next floating sweet .

-- it's every child's dream land , yep ! ]

[Far as dreams go, Azure figures he could've done worse.]

Christ. Did someone barf rainbows on everything? I feel like I'm swimming through paint!

[SO COLORFUL. And damn that's a big cake. Azure looks at the road. Chocolate squares. He looks up at the cotton candy clouds. Yeah. He could've definitely done worse. He snaps off a chocolate twig (with a mint leaf!) from a nearby tree and munches, then looks at the girl who just dove into a tiramisu. Why is it floating?]

...Candy Land, huh?

[But that one good-children-bad-children book place that had all the kids get greedy and backstabbing also comes to mind.]

[ and POP goes the weasel !!

lily peaks her head out from the dessert she just hopped into -- and as odd as it is , isn't at all covered with any chocolate sauce or chunks of sweets . she's clean as ever -- crawling out of the sweet and rolling to the floor , which of course , is coated in chocolate and sweets . she looks up -- spotting the man standing by the tree that looked just as sweet as anything else in this child's wonderland and waves excitedly . ]

Oh! Oh! Mister!

[ and she runs towards him -- every step of her foot causing more candy to trail behind her . wrapped in pink and yellow , laughing openly as she pauses in front of him . ]

You came to play, didn't you? Or did you just come to eat?

[ a pause as POOF !! a plate of cake is in those tiny little hands . ]

I bet you came to play!

[Azure just thinks she kicked out logic, as kids are wont to do. And the business partners he likes best.]

Nah, I got Battleship fantasies to attend to. Just came here for some mint.

[He steps back a little, holds up his hands in cake refusal. He eyes Lily closely - tries to be discreet. Sometimes dreams are one's ideal world. An opposite of reality, self and situation alike. This thorough happiness disturbs him deeply. Then, Azure's cynical by nature.]

"Arthur- Arthur, what is this?" She might be referring to the men. The environment. The rather flashy cocktail dress she's wearing. The rather un-Ariadne tights she's wearing. Or maybe it's everything all put together, plus the gun she's holding loosely in her own hand.

He had a squad of twelve with him as they crossed point a to b for medical supplies. They were down to seven and the heat was not letting up. This wasn't his usual duty but the officer that lead this troupe (that started out as twenty) was the man who was injured. Their men were so stretched out in this barren land that it didn't matter how many stars you had on your shoulder. Stopped mattering long ago.

"Jesus Christ," Halk sniped as he set against the old wood. Something left over. They were sitting in some left over wooden shack and they had no communication. "We're going to die, fuck it all. Fuck it."

"Halk, shut up. You're the one that joined the army." Another man, Smithson, said.

"Both of you shut up," Arthur's eyes peered through the cracks in the wood and slowly stood up. "How ma-- aaa." The words caught in his throat as that voice came up. A quick snap of his head. Aahaa. Hm. He flattened his lips a bit.

"Ariadne, what. Are you doing here?"

"Hell if I know." And so not dressed for the environment. She shifted uneasily in her high heels - none of those men better be looking at her. "And you didn't answer my question, darling." Her voice was scathing, dry. "What's all of this?"

Did she just pull an Eames? That earns you a brow lift. His eyes dart to the men who are indeed staring. Think about what the typical man would be like hungry, thirsty, exhausted, traumatized, and sex deprived for months on end.

"What's it look like sugar, it's a war." Halk again. "Where you from?"

"She your wife, Wilcox? Bit young don't you think." Another said. Another whistled amongst the comments and laughter. It was quieted pretty fast with a glare.

"Get a hold of yourselves," flat and strict. "War, remember." He turned to Ariadne. Tugs her aside gently. This was. Hm. This was awkward.

Quiet. "How did.. you get here?" This was his dream. He knew it was.

There's a certain degree of wariness to her and she listens to the men speak, turning faintly pink. No, she wants to protest, No, I'm not his wife, we just have a daughter waiting for us at home. But Arthur's tugging her away, and she fiddles nervously with the bottom of her dress - much too close to her waist - before she replies.

And it's an Ariadne-worthy reply. "Your last name is Wilcox? ...Could've mentioned that before, don't you think?"

How much time did they have. He knew how this ended. The reason why he woke up in his sleep so often was this dream, and he'd lie, and he'd lie, and he'd lie, and now here you are. He was always trying to find a way to fix this dream but he never could.

He passes her a short look before shaking his head, voice still in a whisper. "We don't have time for this right now. Do you know how to use that?"

She withers a little at the tone of her voice, staring at the gun in her hand like she's never seen one before. Finally, hesitantly, she says, "You pull the trigger? And... do something with the safety. And there's a kick. I think."

"You're kind of close," he reaches for her hand and steps behind her. Setting up her hands. Guiding her finger to turn the safety off. "You need to tell me how you got here, Ariadne. What do you remember before this?"

She backs up slightly, tipping her head against his chin as her hands move fluidly with his. "I don't..." She bites her lip, shaking her head slightly, her messy updo - since when had she tied her hair up? - brushing against the back of her head. "I don't remember. I think... I came from over there?" She nods in a vague direction, but even then, she doesn't seem sure.

"You don't remember what happened before this, before you were dreaming?" He passes a glare back at one of the men who make a comment and told them to gather together what smoke bombs they had left and grenades. Keep an eye on the south-east. They'd come from there first and that was the direction they were going. If they could just get through that front.

They'd stopped asking how he knows these things, at least. His attention turns back to Ariadne.

"No, I- I remember that." More uneasy shifting. She was going to get an earful for this, wasn't she? She could already anticipate it. "So you just pull the trigger after this? How many bullets can a pistol like this hold?"

Changing the subject is for winners, obviously.

Like you did with Cobb? Aria, there's a reason why people don't tell you things. There's a reason why Arthur never asked Cobb, poked or pried, he understood Cobb. Everyone has their crosses to bare. Especially people who turn out like they do, but. There wasn't much time to argue.

"Ten," he said quietly over her shoulder. "The sand is hot but you'll be faster without those heels."

"Sir. The plan," Gruber has been quiet until now. Right. The plan. He'd lost count on how many times he'd remade this plan. They always fail. Every single one.

She can feel the guilt rising in her stomach, Arthur, okay? Guilt mixed with a heavy dose of Fear and Concern. She can't help but reach a hand out, tug at his sleeve, lift that same hand to catch at his chin if he turns back to her.

"Arthur - What's happening?" Tell her, please. She's imploring you.

A soldier never stops being a soldier. Once a solider always a soldier. Even working as the Point. What an awfully military like position, isn't it? Researching, training, getting people from point a to point b. Taking the lead, making sure everything functions, keeping everyone safe. It's a lot like a commander, isn't it? He only told you about the logistics. But it wasn't enough for him. It was in his blood, they said.

He can hear their ridiculous statements and raises a hand. Dealing with weathered men was not the easiest job in the world. You might notice quickly. He doesn't spare them his eyes though, but he does look away from her gaze.

"Afghanistan," he says quietly. "Tried to pull out the troops that had been there since early 2000 but another group came to the rise and things only got worse from there. In thirty seconds an enemy troupe of fifteen will come over the hill there."

He lifts his hand to move hers away slowly. "And we lost our sniper, we don't have the right ammo for the arm, we're down to two grenades, three smoke bombs, a machine pistol, and a hand gun each. And they have a whole lot of fire power."

She looks at him, her eyes brimming with sorrow, guilt, concern. Why are you doing this to yourself? She wants to demand. Why are you repeating this over and over? What's there to gain?

"I'm not just going to stay here, Arthur," she warns instead, trying to move into his line of vision. "You hear me?" She lowers her voice slightly. "Please."

You wouldn't understand. What have you experienced in your life that was so devastating you would give anything to change it? He practiced lucid dreaming for exactly this reason, so he could change it, so he could have some kind of piece of mind but nothing was going to actually change what he did. No matter how many times he reworks the plan. He had a better grasp on reality than Cobb but he wasn't far behind him in means of broken.

"No," he's serious Ariadne. He will shoot you.

"Man, she's got a gun. Just fuckin' throw her in," he's leaving your side to deal with loud mouth, again. Grabbing him by the neck and pulling him up. Teeth grit but words just as steady as they always are.

"Guess who's not Commanding officer here, that's you. Take your gun out, do what I say, and shut up while you're at it." He lets go. "Clear?"

"Uh," one man piped up. "Hate to break this romantic moment guys but they're coming."

She bites her lip, her hands wrapping tighter around the gun. No. No, he wasn't going to get a peace of mind from this. Even if he succeeded, he'd just beat himself up about not accomplishing the plan in real life. He'd get caught up in trying to save a dream set of men.

She could shoot you, Arthur. You said it held ten bullets - that was more than enough for the two of them. But for now, she held her ground. "Arthur, stop. You can't do this alone." He can't deal with this whole situation weighing on his mind alone. He has to let someone help him.

"Hold your fire," he addresses them first. "Wait until they get in close. "Shoot for the head or the knees, you know the drill." He un-arms himself and passes it to Dover. "You've got the best shot here. Take that. Shoot wisely, we need those rounds. Green, you toss the grenades. Hans, smoke bomb them. Then you run. Keep eyes."

There was a mash of, 'got its' as the men started to rearm. "Wilcox, sir. What about you?

"I'm staying here," you're not going to win this one, Aria. He can't let you see this. He just can't.

"Stop it. Arthur, let's-- at least, let's leave." She reaches her hands out to him, the voice hushed. "You don't have to do this again."

Please, leave with her. He can't - shouldn't - she won't let him experience this again.

The better idea. He lets his forehead fall against hers. You weren't suppose to see this, Aria. Everyone has their problems; has their ways of dealing with things. Where do you think PTSD sprouted from? War. You just have to move on.

"Okay," he takes the hand. "Ready?"

Her heart skips a beat as she raises her hand, facing the barrel of the gun towards Arthur. "You first." She doesn't trust him to kill himself, to wake up right after her.

It's okay. He's been down this road before both in the dream and in reality. With a curt nod -- His eyes opened to the dark room, ceiling, bed. Hardwood floors. Slowly lifting from the bed removing the strap and needle.

Damn you Ariadne. Sometimes your curiosity is dangerous.

((She's curled up in an armchair she's pulled next to the bed, and her eyes flicker open. She glances at him, then silently removes the strap and needle, her lips twisting guiltily.))

"Happy?" His tone is flat, as always, nice and level. Putting the PASIV back in to order and closing it up.

"Yeah, a bit." Her voice is defiant as she crosses her arms, watching him carefully. "I'd use the word satisfied, actually."

Glad you feel that way. He meets your stare for a moment, silently, before getting up to grab some water.

She falls quiet, looking down at her lap. A few minutes later, she's slipping up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind and resting her cheek against his back.

"I'm sorry, Arthur."

He's quiet in his stalk to the kitchen, letting the water run, calming that bustle of emotions down beneath his ever steady mask. A short and small sigh fell from his lips when he felt those arms around him. He was suppose to be strong. The logical one. The steady one. The one in the know. Why would he ever want you to see these things from his past?

"It's alright," he says, quietly. Staring in to the glass of water and reaching over to turn off the tap.

She presses a kiss between his shoulder blades softly. "I don't think any worse of you. For any reason." She just... wanted to know. Couldn't resist finding out, seeing him lying there, a light crease in his brow as he slept.

He lets the glass slide to the counter and slowly turns in her arms and leaning back against the top. There was a long period of silence before he nodded, slight. "I'm sorry, I should have told you. It's just one of those things you want to forget but can't."

"I understand." She rests her head against his chest. "Don't... don't worry about it." Some day, she'd pry farther, ask more. Today wasn't that day.

"... What was that dress?"

"Aside from nice?" He raises a brow hiding the slight smile. Definitly thankful for the change of topic.

"Shut up." A beam spreads out on her face. "It was ridiculous."

"Ridiculously nice," he sneaks his fingers around her hips and pulls her in a little. "You look good in red."

Her fingers wrap around his shirt, and she shakes her head, grinning. "Now you're being ridiculous. Did you really like it that much?"

And he will say these next words flawlessly, leaning against the counter a bit more. Thumbs hook on her hips."Well, it could have been longer. Something nice and slanky. Maybe made of satin in a warm wine red."

Yeah, that actually. Mhm. He liked that idea.

She's only struck speechless for a moment, she swears. And that pink dusting her cheeks? Obviously, you're just seeing things. "I-- well, you're- I'm not sure I'm built for slanky clothes." Too short, she'd say.

He lifts one hand sparing a look to her fingers and then up to her cheeks that slowly blushed red. A thumb gently ran across them -- his smile subtle -- as he pulled in to brush his nose against the opposite cheek. Whispering in a warm breath. "I think you'd look really nice in satin."

And then pulled away, slight. "Guess we should try and grab as much sleep as we can before Marion needs to be up for school, huh?"

It's a good thing, right? That he still makes her heart flutter and shudder and screech to a halt when he does things like these? Her mind's still fuzzy when he backs away, murmurs something about going to sleep, and her only reaction is "hell no".

Pulling you in for a well-deserved kiss now, Arthur, thank you very much. She clutches at his shoulders and keeps him close for a moment, then breaks the chaste kiss. "Mm. F'you insist."

[No three please.]

[No 3, please!]

[ Well. When he'd gone to bed, he'd hardly expected to wake up here. ]

[It's a dark, clearly abandoned building. Might have been a tea shop in its previous life, perhaps a cafe or a restaurant judging by the shattered mug abandoned on the floor, the stack of three dust-covered plates on the counter.

There's a dark haired woman in the middle of the room, trying to peer into the dark shadows. It was mid afternoon outside, but the abandoned building, with its boarded up windows, dwelled in perpetual twilight.]

Miss Adler sent me.

[The voice is familiar, though the hair colour may not be. It's Kate, her assistant. Irene stands silent in the shadows, her expression a cold mask, as she waits for what she knows will come next. The sharp shot-like bang of the door being forced open, the thug that will enter.

She barely notices Sherlock's presence.]

[ Interesting.

He stands in the darkness, lips pursing together in a thoughtful display. His eyes scan first the shambles of the room, taking in the dust and broken porcelain and disrepair, before falling on Kate in the center, left alone in the dim light. It's strange enough that he's suddenly wherever he is in the first place, but something all this seems... surreal. Off.

His gaze is drawn to The Woman straight away.

The distance between them is closed easily and silently as he moves up behind her, straightening up and flipping the collar of his coat up about the sides of his neck. When he speaks it can barely be called a whisper, breathed out so softly that only she could hear, if she strains to. ]

I get the distinct feeling I'm not supposed to be here.

[She's had this dream before, and the familiar but unexpected voice is a sharp deviation from the memory and despite the quiet she notices. It's in the logic of the dream that she doesn't ask why he's here, or how he's here but accepts it simply as fact.

She shakes her head, her attention clearly still preoccupied by the scene unfolding. The thug she'd expected, one of Moriarty's hired guns, bursts into the room right on time and despite Kate's words, the first blow is struck across the young woman's face]

I'm not either. [She watches as a second blow to the stomach drives Kate to her knees and the young woman cries out.] Did you ever notice that Kate and I share the same measurements?

It's hard to miss.

[ A slight evasion: He'd noticed the fact, of course... but not until after he'd found out Irene had faked her own death. He hadn't checked thoroughly enough. He hadn't really looked. It's still a minor tear at his pride. ]

Is this what happened to her, then?

[ He watches the blows dispassionately, hands sliding into his pockets. Blow to the cheek: shattered cheekbone, laceration, hemorrhaging. Blow to the stomach: internal bruising, damage to the floating rib. There's no feeling for her; this is already passed. Kate is dead and caring about it now won't change that. ]

Awfully cold-blooded of you, Miss Adler.

[Kate curls up small and defenseless as her assailant continues raining blows, a futile attempt to protect her vital organs. Irene knows exactly how many blows it takes for the look of confusion to fade from the young woman's face to be replaced by fleeting comprehension (seven), then to immediately be replaced by betrayal and anger (eight), and dissolve into blank pain and unconsciousness (ten).

She knows, and so she turns away from the scene and gives Sherlock a cool, thin smile.]

Maybe I'm not as sentimental as you thought, Mr. Holmes.

[ Sherlock watches each strike without flinching; he's a man without a heart, or so he's been told, but some part of him does feel a distant sort of sorrow at the vision before them. Pity that she had to die this way. Pity that Irene Adler allowed it.

People will do some interesting things for their own benefit. ]

Perhaps.

[ He regards her with a smile of his own, just as guarded. She's still so difficult to read. It's as frustrating as it is alluring. ]

Or perhaps we're here because it's not something you've so easily been able to forgive yourself for. I hear guilt can be quite crippling over time; have you considered the services of a good therapist?

[She isn't surprised that he notices the alternate possibility. But she's too proud, too careful of her disguises and self-portraits to admit it. Because that's part of what draws them, this tension between truth and admission, between deduction and discernment and manipulation.

She gives him a sidelong glance.]

I prefer the services of consulting detectives.

Saving your life wasn't service enough?

[ His tone is derisive, but only on the surface. It's been a long time since that day, and he can't deny that he's glad to see her, fondness seen in the easy set of his shoulders and the way his eyes linger over her hair. ]

We both know that we can never see each other again. Not if we don't want that little trip I took to be wasted.

[ It's not hard to figure out: an impossible scene from their past folding out before them, a strange place he's never been, a woman from whom he's destined to remain apart. One, or perhaps somehow both of them, is dreaming.

He tries to pretend it isn't a disappointment. ]

Mycroft came up with some story about you being in a witness protection program to try and spare me the news of your supposed death, had John deliver the news.

There's always dinner.

[It's enough, to know that the other is out there, her misbehaving, him solving crimes. It's enough to know that there is someone like themselves, someone extraordinary, out there in the world, to know that they are not quite as alone as the world would let them believe.

It doesn't make things less dull though, in day-to-day moments.

She would smile but her eyes are caught by Kate again. As Moriarty's thug kicks her hard enough to break bone, and the young woman goes utterly still.]

Charitable of him. Or do you think he was simply trying to keep John from coming to him about your writing sad music all day long?

Hmm. I'm not hungry.

[ He too watches as, mercifully, Kate's body goes rigid, then completely still. The hired help did not go easy on the girl. He's impressed she lasted as long as she did, really; Irene must have trained the girl well.

At the little jab he turns his nose up, tone going dry. ]

I'm sure he's more concerned about what sort of impact the stress will have on his diet.

And it was poignant music.

You never are.

[The wetworks man gives her a few more kicks for good measure, then begins dragging Kate's body out of the abandoned cafe and into a darkly tinted car. The scene around them moves, still seen through some combination of Irene's eyes and the holes in memory filled in by her mind, to the ditch outside London where they dump the body.

Kate's body flops into it, and Moriarty's men drive away but the dream doesn't end, not yet.

Only now does a wry smile touch Irene's lips.]

If I heard it, I would judge for myself.

I'm a light eater.

[ His respect for her won't keep him from being deliberately obtuse, it seems. As the girl's lifeless body rolls to a stop, he tilts his head at the face to take in the details that he should have seen in the morgue that day. Was he really so smitten with the woman he could not read that the obvious went totally unnoticed?

Apparently so.

His eyes turn away to offer his clever companion a snide look down his nose. ]

It was rubbish; I've long since deleted the tune.

[ A bold-faced lie, of course. He could play it in his sleep. ]

[To be fair, she'd used the obvious to her advantage. Kate's hastily dyed hair, the sort of thing that one might do if nervous, putting together a quick disguise. The relentless bruising that made the face all but unrecognizable. The suggestion that she was dead. The recordkeeper.

She gives him a sidelong glance and the dreamscape shifts around them again, this time to a warehouse by the waterfront. The sort of place one expected clandestine meetings.]

No you haven't.

[A gun appears then in Irene's hand and she moves away from Sherlock in the familiar gestures of the dream, greets the thugs and goes through the motions and waits until he's confirmed with Moriarty that he's been paid, etc etc. And then she puts three bullets into the man. One in each kneecap, and one in his gut. And the butt of the pistol breaks his jaw.]

[ Sherlock doesn't interrupt this walk through the woman's past, instead straightening to watch with interest. He's absently taking note of the man's details that he couldn't see in the dim light moments before (left-handed, recent tooth extraction, knee surgery as a child) before he sees Irene shift just so... and realizes it doesn't really matter.

The gun fires a moment later.

Even in a dream the decibel is painful; his hands close over his ears moments before she puts the first bullet in one knee but it only takes the edge off, leaving a ringing in its wake when she takes the pistol to his jaw. This certainly adds credibility to the guilt theory. ]

You're quite handy with a nine millimeter... though I suppose that's no surprise, given your penchant for "misbehaving."

[She doesn't seem to hear him for a moment, her expression carefully blank as she watches Moriarty's man. The wounds are painful and slowly fatal. She's seen this part of it before too, knows exactly how long it will take him to die. She doesn't need to pay attention to know that it takes a very long time. She'd been there, after all.

And so she turns her attention back to Sherlock.]

Don't credit that to misbehavior, Mr. Holmes. It's insurance. I like being alive to misbehave.

[ The man writhes on the floor and Sherlock finds this easy to watch; after all, he dropped a member of the United States Secret Service out a window once or thrice for simply laying a hand on Mrs. Hudson. Had they done worse, he would have had far less survivable wounds befall him.

Of course, Sherlock hadn't put her in the line of fire. Not intentionally, anyway.

Approaching the fallen thug, he tilts his head to examine her handiwork. It will be slow and painful. The fallen criminal will likely beg and curse and plead until the bleeding is too much for his body to take, organs shutting down one by one until his heart slows to a stop. It is a ruthless. He's not the least bit surprised. ]

This was your retribution, then? Killing the man hired to murder the girl you sent to her death?

[Not that begging or cursing did very well with a broken jaw. She doesn't even bother looking at the man, though his burbling angry incoherent cries are easily audible.

There's still very little expression in her face, because she doesn't admit weakness. It's a battle to draw it out of her, and even when he hits the nail on the head, she refuses to acknowledge it. But there is something there, simmering anger in the set of her lips, in the hard look in her eyes as she stares down at the dying man.]

It's tying up loose ends.

[ The details here are different than what happened to Kate: these are not just blanks that have been filled. This is an experience. She stayed here until the unlucky hitman drew his last breath. She watched. Could he say he wouldn't have done the same, though? ]

Yes. I suppose it is.

[ Adjusting his collar, he turns his back on the man without a second thought, his plight easily forgotten as he focuses on his companion instead. Watching a stranger die - particularly one of unsavory morals - is no more startling to him than the plight of a drowning fly to an ordinary person. It's not even a blip on his radar.

Irene, however, holds his attention quite easily. ]

What's to say I didn't delete that song? It was only to pass the time, after all. A simple distraction of notes strung together and placed in a line on a page.

[She pulls her attention away from Moriarty's man and his burbling and arches an eyebrow at Sherlock. He is far more interesting than the dead man, and she already knows what will happen to him.

The shift in topic is better, and she smiles, the expression sharper, more like herself and without that touch of tension and simmering anger.]

Because you came to Karachi.

[Because he had written it as eulogy, thinking she were dead, and he had come halfway across the world to prevent it happening again. Because she knows with a certainty that only comes with knowing someone is of similar mind, similar temperament. Or maybe she doesn't know for certain and is simply remarkably good at knowing what he likes, or in this case, doesn't like.

To be reminded of having been beaten.

It could be that. A small likelihood, but possible.]

[ The way he begins to shift her attention away from the writhing, sobbing man on the ground is subtle, first with conversation, then with a slow turn to encourage her away from the memory that leaves her jaw tight and her eyes dark with a rage she clearly works hard to repress. It's a small kindness that he'd rather she not be aware of, as such shows of emotion go rather against his nature.

Irene may be different than others, but he'd like her to not lord that over him more than she already does. The scales are already tipped too far in her favor.

To her observation he offers a half-hearted shrug, one shoulder rising and falling almost imperceptibly. Her theories hang unspoken between them, hidden in plain sight within her words. He neither confirms or denies them, at least at first. After a moment he turns to look at a faraway point in the building, sensing the eyes of a man who would later discredit his genius to an entire populace... but he can't be seen, not from here. He wonders if Irene ever knew he was watching. ]

I've never had an ear for eulogies. The feeling behind them is lost on me.

[ Of course, six months of mourning says otherwise... but he stands by his statement all the same. ]

[She hadn't known Moriarty had been watching. But if he told her, she wouldn't have been surprised. She might even have been pleased.

Because Kate's death had been a necessity, but that didn't mean it hadn't been a waste.

Irene gives Sherlock a sidelong look, a hint of arch amusement in her eyes, in her voice.]

Still insisting that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side?

[Of course she remembers the exact words he used. They had been as sharp as the crack of a whip when he'd unlocked her phone and left her defenseless. And she'd thought they were true up until that night in Karachi.

Well, that night had changed a lot of things.]

I've seen no evidence to the contrary.

[ He remembers, too. He'd like to say that his revealing her, and his rather acrid choice of words, was vengeance for the destruction of Bond Air and any subsequent plans that would come after it; he'd even like to say it was entirely his bruised pride speaking, the shame of being so easily tricked into her web.

He'd rather not think about the fact that, deep down, he had felt betrayed. If that was what it was to have a heart then he would gladly toss it away and accept it as a waste of time and precious intellect. He would care no more for Irene Adler, never again speak her name, and move on with his life...

And yet he couldn't walk away from that. Not to the point of letting her die. The heart was a tricky thing, after all.

His gaze finally falls away from where he can practically feel Jim Moriarty's eyes burning into him, leaving his skin prickled with discomfort. The look he gives Irene is reproachful, but with that same confused affection he still can't quite wrap his head around. ]

I should hope you haven't made the same mistake with whatever new life you've created for yourself.

[She wonders briefly what in the distance had caught his attention, and tries to think back to that day. The sharpest memories are of vindictive satisfaction, the man's burbling death. Which she supposes isn't what's transfixed his attention.

She laughs quietly.]

I'm cold-blooded and I enjoy being alive to misbehave, Mr. Holmes. I save the sentiment for dreaming.

[ He tilts his head at her with the intent of making another snide comment -- before they end up locking eyes and he's left suddenly flummoxed. He too works to keep his sentiment under wraps, but they are both in whoever's headspace and by that logic, should be as sentimental as they like.

It's apparently not something he's quite sure what to do with.

After an awkward silence that drags on far too long he finally turns his eyes away, sniffing and trying to make it seem as though he wasn't just caught in some sort of emotional standstill. He'd been doing so well at the bravado until now, damn it all. ]

Well. That's... Yes. As you should. Clearly.

[ Yes, that dying man is now very interesting and Sherlock is more than happy to give him his attention. ]

[She smiles as he turns away to watch the dying man, and something in her own words tug at Irene's thoughts.

Yes, this was a dream, a memory with its holes filled in by imagination and deduction. but if she were lucid enough to realize it was a dream...

She frowns with a bit of concentration, and a spot of mud near Sherlock's feet wavers, the dreamscape blurring and reshaping itself. Grass... mud... indistinct brown blur... wood grain... curves... violin.

Interesting. She'd never thought lucid dreaming actually worked. And amusement snakes through her voice as she speaks, wondering at what point he'll stop staring at the dying man to notice the new detail.]

I'm glad you approve.

[ He notices the shimmer of existence straight away, watching it shift from one material to the next to the next all in the corner of his eye. Just because he's asleep doesn't make him any less observant, after all... and he's getting a bad feeling the more it begins to change into something more familiar.

When he drags his eyes away to look at it fully, there is a violin resting just beside his shoe, and he can't stop himself before rolling his eyes in a fit of dramatic and childish frustration. ]

Oh come on.

[ He's fully capable of returning her gaze now, if only to properly display his soured disposition. Just can't let things drop, can you? ]

[Provoking reactions out of him, little slips in that facade of emotionless intellect, was part of what made this so interesting. And the fact that this was a dream, wasn't real just meant the provocation could be more overt, less restrained by the rules of the game and the need to give nothing away as she did so.

Which was why Irene's smile was just so terribly amused.]

Isn't watching that pathetic man burble and choke on his own blood boring you?

[ It's particularly funny that, out of all the people Sherlock has interacted with in his life, Irene is the one he acts the least like himself with. A great deal of effort is put into seeming... All-knowing. Awe-inspiring. Suave. These are not things that come naturally to a man with a penchant for adult temper-tantrums and a total lack of social capacity with other human beings.

Despite himself, some childish part of him yearns to impress her.

For a long moment he glares at her, nose turned up in annoyed defiance. He doesn't dignify her with a response at first, lips pressed together unhappily... before he leans down, picking up both violin and bow. He shifts the cheek rest on his shoulder and glares at her yet again, clearly not happy about how easily he's been swayed over this matter.

Without a word, he draws the bow across the strings and begins to play. ]

[She's surprised that he does play, because even in... whatever this dreamspace is, there's a part of her that still expects him to be stubborn and utterly unwilling to do what she wants, even if she has ample evidence to the contrary.

But as he plays the expression of amusement on her face fades into something softer, almost sentimental.

The fact that Moriarty's man is on his last breaths, that the memory is near an end, doesn't register]

I might call it poignant.

[ She doesn't expect him to play; perhaps that's why he does it, just to throw her off. Just to defy her expectations. Just to prove he can't be predicted as easily as she seems to believe and revel in the small victory he has over her. That's what their relationship is about, after all: each centimeter gained to surpass the other. Triumph.

At least, that's what he tells himself in this moment of raw emotion displayed, to help soothe his discomfort away, the bow drawing across the strings of his violin with purpose. The man mere meters and an entire world away gurgles in his death throes. Sherlock finds him easy to ignore. Each note is a piece of his heart and he feels genuine anxiety showing it to her even in a place such as this; his hand is tipped too far. Too much advantage.

So much for victories.

As the eulogy reaches its climax he closes his eyes, letting out a breath. Silence weighs heavily upon them after her words, and it feels like a lifetime before he opens his eyes and straightens, lowering both bow and body. His nose turns up with distaste and attempts to look reasonably detached. ]

As I said.

[The notes take longer to fade away than they would have in the real world, humming softly along the ether long after his words faded and verbal silence stretched between them.

Irene is rarely at a loss for words, but as the tune sinks in, weaving its way deep into her subconscious, she finds herself experiencing exactly that.

And it feels like giving in, like losing.

Silence stretches brittle until she has to break it and ,for her, the words are almost clumsy.]

It's everyone's dream, isn't it? To go to their own funeral and see what lies people tell about them?

Is it?

[ He tilts his head at her in genuine confusion; it's a thought that never crossed Sherlock's mind, at least not in that capacity. Would it be fascinating to dissect one's own corpse to determine cause of death? Most definitely. To hear the outpouring of words from people who presumed they knew what made you tick? Not even a blip on his radar. He'd up and leave the funeral himself straight out of the casket if he were stuck listening to such drivel.

Well, maybe after listening to John.

Despite his complete lack of understanding, he's aware that the song has had an impact on Irene and some part of him delights in the fact. Her pupils are dilated. Her expression is strained, distressed. With a sharp turn on his heel he closes the distance between them until they're nearly close enough to touch, staring down at her with interest. The hand that holds the violin's bow makes contact, fingers slipping around her wrist and pressing ever so gently.

Sherlock has studied the fundamentals of love and still he can't wrap his logical mind around it it; the emotions, the devotion, the obsession, it all seems like such a waste. He doesn't understand what most of it means, even with how his throat contracts at the sight of Miss Adler, or how his heart begins to pump just a little bit faster. He doesn't understand.

And so he takes her pulse. ]

[She remembers this too, and as Moriarty's man chokes on his last breath, the dreamscape begins to dim, the memory fades, and another takes its place.

The warm crackle of fire, the ornate wallpaper covering the walls of the flat on Baker Street. Another time he'd taken her pulse.

This time, however, she knows what he's doing, and she turns her wrist ever so slightly in his grasp, so his fingertips rest against bone rather than blood vessels.]

You are going to have to do better than that, Mr. Holmes.

[ There's a flash of disappointment in his eyes, very brief, before it's quickly covered with something more neutral and less... revealing. This may be a dream somehow, but it would not behoove him to offer her more than he already has -- and it appears she feels quite the same. Her slender wrist falls from his grasp as he turns to set both violin and bow atop the nearest side table, feeling that strange sense of disconnect one has in familiar places constructed by the subconscious: it looks like home, but it just doesn't feel right.

John isn't here. Neither is Mrs. Hudson. It simply isn't Baker Street without them.

With an overly dramatic spin Sherlock tosses himself down into the worn leather of his chair, fingers steepling together and a guarded smile pulling at his lips. His gaze falls to John's chair across from his own, inviting her to sit. ]

So tell me, Miss Adler: What new life have you made for yourself, now that you're well and truly deceased in the eyes of the world? I doubt you've managed to really avoid getting yourself into trouble.

[She doesn't take the invitation, instead lingering by the mantlepiece, running her fingers along the edge. Remembering the time she'd left her cameraphone right there, on the left side.]

If you really wanted me to behave, you'd have had your brother lock me up. [She glances over her shoulder at him with a wicked smile, and the hard vowels of a Midwestern American accent filters into her voice.] Would you believe I've gotten myself into an American witness protection program?

[ That gives him pause, his eyebrows taking a brief trip up towards his hairline. ]

...I guess Mycroft's little lie came from some good ideas, after all.

[ Though thinking that she's found a place to thrive is a comfort, if one that's bittersweet. Briefly he considers the idea of taking a case in America, flying over for a little while, just taking a day aside from his work... but no. The world must think Irene Adler is dead, and where he goes, some aid or another of Mycroft's will follow and see with their own eyes that she is not. It's not worth the risk.

Even if he'd really like to see her... just one more time.

The thought is pushed down hard and away, his gaze switching to the mantelpiece instead. He remembers the night he found it. He remembers how he felt the six months after. Nothing about it was a very delightful experience for him. ]

I'm sure your sort of work is right up their alley.

[She laughs a little at that, running her fingers along the mantelpiece before sinking into John's chair, tucking her feet beneath her as she does so. Her gaze never leaves him, as if she's reading his thoughts on his face.]

Good ideas, but not really my cup of tea. [Her smile is almost teasing.] They're a bit straight laced for my tastes. [Still not answering his question.]

[ A pause before he realizes his mistake: he bought into it way too easily. A brief look of annoyance passes over his features, though more at himself than anything else. He should know better than to trust her, even after everything that's happened -- or especially after. He smooths himself over with something cooler and closed off, reassuring himself with the fact that it really is best he doesn't know where she is or what she's doing with herself.

It's better that way.

Uncomfortable with his idle hands, he plucks up his violin again to hold it upright on his lap, fingers sliding across the strings. He finds its body easier to look at than the one sitting across from him. ]

Here I thought Americans were rife with the depraved and uncouth. Plenty you could relate with there, I'd expect.

[ He saved your life, Irene -- but that doesn't mean he doesn't remember being burned. There's no hiding the hint of petulance to his tone. ]

[No doubt that had been meant to hurt, but Irene doesn't even bat an eye. There had been only once he'd managed to really hurt her, only once he'd managed to humiliate her, and it took something far more intimate than sniping about her professional choices.

So that same amused smile stays exactly where it is, and Irene shrugs.] And nowhere near as refined in their tastes for misbehavior. It'd get boring.

[She tilts her head, still watching him as he studiously avoids watching her.] You can relate, I expect.

Hardly.

[ Having his boredom related to hers is... bothersome, somehow. He revels in their similarities, dazzled by how easily this woman, this mad and amazing woman, can come toe-to-toe with him and even best him when the situation plays out right -- but at the same time, it makes him skittish and uncomfortable, anxious like a rabbit sensing the snare before it's sprung.

Even after the blow he dealt her, Irene Adler still has a hold over him. The realization is stomach-clenching at best, and beginning to show the longer they're forced to interact. ]

As I've made perfectly clear, your form of entertainment is really not my area, Miss Adler.

[ So what if he's not looking at her? So what if it's obvious? The agitation is evident in the sharpening pulls he makes against the strings, abusing his violin to ease his own displeasure. ]

[The dissonant notes give him away, but then so does the way he firmly refuses to look at her, even in a dream. She smiles, because she knows it will irritate him for her to appear unflappable.]

No, but you did know where to look. And that counts for something.

Open to anything!

[Well Esmeralda welcome to the dreams of a nightmare god. They were, surprisingly not that horrid. Despite the odd appearance Baxter had he certainly seemed happy. Standing in that field of sunflowers and hugging a lovely woman in a yellow dress.

Then suddenly the sky grew dark, a horrid man appeared and before anything could be done he killed the woman whom Baxter clearly had affections for. All Baxter did for a time was cry at the loss, just standing there.]

Esmerelda looked around herself curiously. She had absolutely no idea where she was, but she was determined to find out. Spotting the couple, she began to make her way over to them, but screamed in horror as the girl was murdered. And then she began to run - run towards the man. She reached out to grab Baxter's hands.

"That man. We must stop him. The girl - we need some help."

He pulled his hands out of Esmeralda's.

"Nor...He killed my Nor." The tanned man who had literally chucked a spike through the girl was taunting "Come on Baxter! Face me! Show me how much I offended you by killing your whore!"

By the look on Baxter's face this was not at all anything wise to say.

Esmerelda whirled around to the other man, eyes flashing.

"What did you do that for? They hadn't done anything to you!"

She's used to being round thieves and murderers, but it doesn't mean she likes it. She's shaking a little too, scared that the man will try to kill again. She's ready to kick if he tries anything though.

"To challenge Baxter you stupid-!" The man replied but he wasn't allowed more words than that. Perhaps due to his own sense that this wasn't the real memory Baxter didn't replay his far more impressive killing of this man. Instead it was a simple rush forward and a snap of his neck.

Even with the man dead there was still something very wrong with the way Baxter looked. It was a clear sign of an unhinged man and he didn't say a word, he just stood there.

Esmerelda jumps. She has no idea what's just happened, and honestly, she doesn't want to find out. What is clear is that the murderer is dead, and the other man is losing ir. esmerelda once more tries to grab his hands.

"Come on. We've gotta get out of here."

Somehow he snaps out of it, tears were streaming down his face as he clutched Esmerelda's hands.

"Nor" He muttered. At this point it would probably be in Esmerelda's best interest just to pull him along to get them walking.

"Yes. What if there are more? There are some battles not to be fought."

And she begins to drag him, non too gently, through the field. But has absolutely no idea how to get out of it.

"He was it. Someone sent him to get to me." After a while he actually started to follow her.

She is so relieved that he seems to have snapped out of it.

She can relate to that, though. Is Paris not burning because of her?

"so he killed your girl? Why? Whyy does someone want you dead?"

"He doesn't want me dead he wants me captured. He knows he can't kill me." Seeing as this girl had no idea what was going on he decided to put this delicately "It's the...church. They consider my existence an affront to their god."

"The church is misguided. I do not believe that their god and the holy mother would mind looking after my people too... But I am sought under their authority too... If they catch me, I will burn... What is their reason for chasing you?"

"I wouldn't sound so sure before meeting him."

He gave a little sigh

"Because I am not THEIR god."

She started to retort angrily,
"What? Because my skin is brown and I dance in the streets, their god would not care?"
When she realises what he's just said. And she's incredulous.

"You're a god?"

"He's not exactly the nicest fellow."

Baxter nodded

"I though you would notice my more than odd appearance. Though if you look behind you there is a little more proof. By now I imagine both the bodies of my Nor and her killer are probably gone. The killer will revive but Nor will not."

She shrugs. "I know the sweetest man on earth who is disguised as a monster, and the very devil himself who masquerades as the law. Appearence is nothing."

She casts a look back to where the bodies had lain, and sure enough, it was just an empty piece of grass.

"Nor was not a god?........ What do we do now?"

"She was a god but less powerful. The man you saw is more powerful and has the ability to come back."

He considers her second question for a moment. "You have a choice. You can go back to wherever you came from without me or with me. Without me you won't be wrapped up in this business but with me I can promise protection from anything that comes."

Esmerelda takes a minute to let all of this sink in. If she goes back, she faces almost certain death at Frollo's hand; she knows the net is closing in; she knows it's only a certain amount of time before she burns...

"And if you return to Paris with me, you will help?"

She doesn't really have much choice, does she? Whatever he's wrapped up in can only be as bad as her own trouble, can't it?

"If it's a mortal issue you could consider it a non-issue. All you will have to do is give me some clear identifier so I know your people from the ones have to get rid of."

Baxter would combat this but helping this woman who was actually concerned for him sounded like a good idea.

She's somewhat hesitant. "There's a... man. He wants me dead. Or worse."

But she's not sure if she wants Frollo dead. Does he deserve death? Probably... but who is she to judge?

"And you coming back - it will help you to escape this god?"

"But you're unsure if you want him dead. That's fine, I just need to speak to your leader or the closest thing to it."

He gave a shrug "Not exactly but you must have a scholar among your rank that can help in my endeavor in their own time. Somewhere in one of the major religions there is a seat without a god, I must find out which one to take it." He then added as an after-thought "It would also give me a place to rest, mostly free of concern."

"You mistake me for someone important... I am a gypsy. The wisest man we have is Clopin, and he is often misguided. We have no real leader; we are equal with each other. The leader of France - of Paris, anyway, is the man who seeks me." She glances over at him.

"We can see what will happen. But I do not know if my world will be helpful for you. It's not a nice world for the outsiders like you and I..."

"And you are mistaking me for one that cares for human society to that extent."

If he had a mouth he would be smiling "Your people are frankly more company than I'm used to. I also only wish to speak to this Clopin for help with the theatrics of it all. If I'm going to come across as the protector of the Gypsies I want to know what your people stand for and what sort of message you want to come across."

She smiles.

"Then that is easy. We stand for freedom and tolerance."

"Then give me an idea of a form to take. I will deal with your church problem without taking a life if I can help it."

She thinks. "To pass in society, you must be white. And rich. And handsome. You can't talk to people like me, or even the peasants. To pass in my society..." She shrugs. "You must be yourself. Anything you want to be. But you must be prepared for people to draw away from you or spit at you or..." She shrugs.
"If you want to destroy Frollo, it would be best to look like one of his people."

"Wait." He couldn't believe he didn't come up with this before "This form will do much worse to his moral."

Rather suddenly he would change into a mouthless Angel. "What will they do when an `angel' is protecting the people they hate so much?"

"They will assume you are a devil, or one of us dressed up... though in time, if you can prove you are a god, then Frollo will have to listen."

"Hmmm I think then perhaps it is better they see me for what I am. If this won't be as simple as one fight they may as well see the god they are dealing with."

He shifted back "Either way your people will not be attacked again, we can focus on image after we remove the threat."

Baxter took her hand "Now lead the way."

Just one problem.

"I... I don't know how I got here. I don't know where 'here' is, and I don't know how to get back."

"Wait."

And then he would face-palm.

"This isn't the real world. We're in a dream, my dream it seems. I'm not sure how this happened."

"What?" Esmerelda's confused.

"You're not real? And Nor? And - none of it?"

"What happened did occur but sometime before this. I was having a dream of the past." He sighed.

"Though if your people are in danger my offer does stand."

She smiles sadly.

"I knew this was too good to be true..." She sighs.

"How will you find us? And, if I am in your dream, how do you know you do not dream me?"

"Simple, when I exit the dream I will exit from your body. It's not difficult." He was confident in this as if someone just asked him to walk across a road "And I know I didn't dream you because I can distinguish between a dream entity and a living entity now that I know I'm in a dream."

"So you will come into my body?" Esmerelda is horribly confused, and beginning to wonder if she's dreaming or if she's even a figment of his imagination... and now - what?

No, right now my body is in the dream world. So I would use your body as an exit so I will be standing next to you when you wake.

"Very well... and will I remember who you are?"

"You should but even if you don't I doubt you will spurn the offer of help."

She nods...

"Then, shall we? Before... it comes back?"

"Alright."

Rather abruptly the dream would end. Esmerelda would be in her bed and just as he said Baxter was standing next to her.

Esmerelda blinked her way into reality, jumping considerably when she saw Baxter.

"It was real..."

"I told you." He sounded a little amused.

"So we're in France?"

"It is not every day you meet a god, you know?" She looks at him in amusement.

"Yes, this is Paris. And this is the Court of Miracles. The only safe place in the city."

He'll see that they're in the catacombs beneath Paris. Light is provided through burning flares which gutter and smoke. Bright bits of material hang from the ceiling and there's straw underfoot.

"Is there a way to get a message out quickly?"

He seemed to get straight to business "I want every one of your people hidden within an hour's time. I don't want someone to be caught in the crossfire."

"We can get Clopin to announce it... Everyone listens to Clopin."

Most would listen to her, she was fairly sure. But Clopin was the safe bet.

"What are you going to do?"

"I am going to give a show of power. I won't damage the city or any people if I can help it but after the church sees just what you have enlisted the aid of they will hide in their church thinking me a demon who can't trespass upon The Brat's holy ground."

Esmerelda's slowly beginning to feel very unsure of what she has done. Though the god seems benevolent... is he all that he seems? But she can't do anything now.

She got out of bed; fully dressed (she didn't own any other clothes) and set off down the catacomb.

"Come on. We should find Clopin."

"Very well."

Noticing some worry he would add "I am neither good nor evil but know this; the god of the church would have the rest of the gods die so he can be the only one."

"Then it is he who sounds as close minded as the men who serve him."

It is true. Gods can often be what their believers shape them to be.

[This is . . . unusual.]

[ It's a bit of a strange lounge -- not that Sherlock being in a lounge isn't decidedly weird to begin with. He sits against the bar, paying no mind to the woman singing jazz on stage, nor seeming particularly perturbed by the fact that the tables are in fact the type one would see in a morgue... with some actually holding sheet-draped bodies.

Still, something feels amiss. The consulting detective nurses his drink - served in a petri dish? - and glances around at the too-pale occupants of the bar, all mingling with one another... all dead. He just needs to figure out how. ]

[Aziraphale makes a face at his own drink - about a thimble's worth of red served in a test tube - and places it in the convenient rack next to his napkin. It smells of formaldehyde in here.]

No souls.

[ That gets Sherlock's attention straightaway. His eyes turn on Aziraphale and narrow suspiciously as he takes in every inch of the man. He speaks with a frown. ]

You don't belong here.

[ Despite the wariness in his gaze, he sounds intrigued. ]

[Aziraphale stares right back.]

I'm well aware. I certainly didn't choose to be here! I don't even sleep. And yet -

[He spreads his hands.] Here I am.

"Sleep?"

[ He's a man of great observation in the waking world, but one can't expect even someone of his caliber to lucid dream allthe time. Still, that's pushed to the back burner for now in lieu of further examination of the angel. Sherlock straightens up and approaches to give him a good once-over.

There are too many things about the facts he's seeing in his tells that just don't make sense.

His mouth twists into a curious sort of smirk. The party, the chattering corpses, the band up front, all of it fades to the buzzing of insects while the consulting detective tries to make sense of what he's seeing. He does so love a good puzzle. ]

You really don't belong here. Who are you, exactly?

[ A beat. ]

You can't possibly be as old as you look.

[Aziraphale smiles good-naturedly. While Sherlock's scrutiny is . . . invasive, Aziraphale doesn't really mind it. And he does like to see intelligence in today's youth.]

Do you actually want me to give you the answer? You seem to be enjoying yourself without it.

[Raising his hands to his face for examination, he scrutinizes the lines along the backs and the veins in his wrists, then runs his fingertips across the corners of his eyes, before concluding:] I don't actually look very old. How old do you think I am?

[ Sherlock is silent for a moment, though his eyes begin to narrow, a twist of insult making the side of his smile twitch faintly. He's being patronized, at least in his opinion, and he does not appreciate it. A breath before he begins- ]

You appear to be a man in his mid- to late thirties judging by the creases developed in your face about your eyes and lips as well as the characteristic degeneration of elasticity in your skin across your hands but, were I not seeing you before me as I speak, I would take you for a man in his late seventies at the very earliest judging by the manner in which you speak and the clothes in which you've dressed yourself which all hold the signs of one whose time is long since passed yet he is incapable of letting go of. Despite this you hold yourself with none of the typical aches and pains associated with a man whose body has begun to wind down; your posture is perfect, even beyond mine which, if you've any difficulty understanding the significance such a statement which I suspect you do, is a feat. You hold yourself as a young man does when he is in his prime when physically and no doubt mentally you are quite beyond that. No aspect of you lines up with another and so I will say again, as it seems I must repeat myself to properly make my point, you can't possibly be as old as you look.

[Well. That was certainly more words than Aziraphale was expected or, indeed, had ever heard in one breath. So interesting, though, so clever!]

You got all that from a five minute conversation, did you? My dear, I've never met a genius, this is an honor. [And while he might sound patronizing, he is being one hundred per cent genuine right now.]

I will tell you that I'm quite a bit older than seventy. Just . . . well-preserved?

I got most of it within the first minute of seeing you; the rest took roughly two minutes of conversation, as I was taking my time.

[ He buttons his suit jacket absently, staring down his nose at the other in a way that is decidedly derisive and bordering on superior. Aziraphale's presence unsettles him in a way he's never experienced before; he's clearly wary of him. ]

That's a rather evasive way of putting it, I would say. Though it's impossible, you look clearly older than even that, which makes absolutely no sense at all which means-

[ His eyes dart around the room, taking in each piece of evidence - table, corpses, pale cocktail waitress, man with a gunshot wound to the throat - before he looks back to the angel before him. ]

I'm dreaming. How dull.

[Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. All right then. Pride is a sin, of course, but there is always the possibility that this fellow comes by it honestly.] Impressive.

[He is a bit offended by the insinuation that he's a figment of Sherlock's imagination and drums on the table with his fingers.] I'm real, let's not forget. [Glancing around at the corpses and . . . general mess, he shudders a little.] Although if this is what dreams are like I'm glad I've been avoiding them.

[ While he has reason to be the proud bugger that he is - his intellectual prowess is difficult to match - one could say he takes it a bit over the top, to say the least. It's amazing the sort of personality quirks one develops with a severe lack of social skills.

The insistence in Aziraphale's voice earns him a critical look, as if the angel being an actual interloper into his own subconscious is only one of many theories he's already begun to form... and rests at the bottom of the list. His gaze briefly follows the other's around the lounge, looking confused. ]

Hmm, really? This is reasonably close to an average day awake for me. [ A glance aside as he mumbles mostly to himself- ] Though I've not had a grand-scale murder in a lounge club such as this yet, bit of a pity...

[Aziraphale's lip curls. His voice is nearly even enough that he might be genuine. But not quite.] Oh yes, that is a pity. [He glances at a waiter with ligature markings around his neck, then back at Sherlock.] What an exciting life you must live.

[ Sherlock notices easily the forced nature behind the other's tone, but ignores it easily. He's accustomed to that. Apparently even one as old as Aziraphale can't quite understand the way his mind works. Ah, well. ]

At times. Most of it is dreadfully boring, to be honest; it doesn't help that between cases John throws a royal fit over the extra experiments that I...

[ He trails off, catching the gaze of someone across the room: a man, perhaps a head shorter than Sherlock, with blond hair and serious eyes. His arms are crossed over his chest, partially obscuring the blood soaking into the front of his shirt that's gushed down from where his throat was slashed straight through to the trachea. Sherlock goes positively white, opening his mouth to speak -- but a woman half-burned in a fire walks through his line of vision and suddenly, the familiar face is gone.

Left with mouth hanging open, he finally seems to remember his companion. His voice is weaker when he rediscovers it. ]

...Sorry, what?

[Aziraphale follows Sherlock's gaze, turning in his chair and catching a glimpse of the man and the wound. When he turns back to Sherlock, he finds him pale and vulnerable-looking for the first time since he appeared in this place.

He waits for Sherlock to speak, and then, very gently:] Who was that, my dear?

[ The show of emotion is over as quickly as it appeared, though there's still an ashen pallor to his face. The endearment is clearly not well-received judging by the narrowing of eyes he offers the other, lips pulling into a fine line. ]

My name is Sherlock Holmes. And that-

[ His eyes dart to where the specter of John was standing; the wall he'd rested against sports a spray-painted smiley face, riddled with bullets. He doesn't look at it any further beyond the glance. ]

That was no one.

( Haha, unfortunately for Sherlock, Aziraphale has quite a bit of experience dealing with emotional constipation. The only way out is through, theoretically. )

I'm sorry. Mr. Holmes.

( He lets the silence sink in for a few moments. Sometimes it's necessary. He looks away, inspecting his perfect cuticles. )

It's still a dream. I know you know that. But best to keep it in mind.

[ That seems to rankle him quite a bit; he straightens up in his chair and all but sneers at his companion at the prospect of being reassured and... comforted. How insulting. ]

Obviously. I'm in no need of your reassurance over what's right before me, and I'm still not entirely convinced you aren't just another aspect of my subconscious.

[ From the corner of his eye he sees another familiar face: Mrs. Hudson, a bullet hole driven square through her forehead. He didn't jump soon enough, and she paid the price- But no, this is all just a dream, his mind's way of recuperating, nothing more than that. It isn't real.

None of this is real.

He snatches up the strange petri dish beverage from nearby, glaring down into the shallow dish. The contents have become an unpalatable shade of brown, like rotting blood. ]

This is all just rubbish.

I never said you needed it. You quite obviously don't need anything.

[Miffed but smiling serenely, Aziraphale stands, pushing his chair in after. Looking around, he sighs.]

How would you determine if I was a figment? Since you clearly will not take my word as evidence.

[Stepping to one of the other tables, he leans over to inspect a dish. It is covered. When he removes the lid, he finds an artful arrangement of charred eyeballs. He places the lid down gently, then looks up a the patron whose food he's examining, who appears not to have noticed him.]

At least you get something right.

[ It's muttered under his breath more than anything else, hands steepling and gaze settling elsewhere for the moment. If this is a dream, he should be able to control it. This is his mind. His sacred ground. His palace. The blood, the cadavers, the unending din of music, that he can handle without batting an eye... but he has no need to see the friends whose lives he almost destroyed.

With an irritated sigh, he allows himself to be distracted by the challenge placed before him. His chair swivels as he stares at Aziraphale with eyebrows furrowed, eyes darting to his hair, then shirt collar, then hands, then jawline, clearly processing everything with each rapid shift of his gaze.

After a moment, he settles back into his chair, fingers steepled once more. ]

Interesting.

Interesting?

[He's somewhat weary of the intrigue, but he'll bite.]

What about me is interesting, Mr. Holmes?

[Molly is going to come out scarred from this somehow, isn't she?]

last night, i dreamt i was a muffler.

Lily Rammsteiner ❀ DOGS: Bullets & Carnage

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Ethan Mars | Heavy Rain

Eleventh Doctor | Doctor Who

number 2 and 4 ?

askcjs zombie slaying!lizzie

all thanks to Pride and Prejudice and Zombies :D

i ♥ that book

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lily baskerville | pandora hearts

4, Bizarre dream

/sets it up~.

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Sergeant Doyle || 28 Weeks Later

Arthur || Inception || Open

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lawwwlllsss - 5

MAN WHATEVER.

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oops awkward action tag sorry. ; ;

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(Young) Dr. Kiriko || Black Jack || OTA

fitzwilliam darcy | pride & prejudice [modern au]

Claudia Donovan | Warehouse 13 | OTA

Ishizu Ishtar | Yu-Gi-Oh! | OTA

Britta Perry | Community

ben harmon • american horror story

Veigue Lungberg | Tales of Rebirth

Re-l Meyer || Ergo Proxy

christian ellison | oc

Montgomery ❝Scotty❞ Scott | Star Trek XI

Nancy Holbrook ❧ A nightmare on Elm street❧ ota

Mike | Power Rangers: Samurai | open

Irene Adler || BBC Sherlock

care to roll?

Ooo, 5.

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