institutesamples | you know what I'm sayin'?

Sherlock Holmes sits on the roof of the school, where he can see everything, take in the smell of the campus - the grass, the way the air tastes, the particular stink of teenagers wearing a combination of either too much cheap cologne or too much perfume. His legs dangle from the edge of the roof - he's positioned on the back of the school, out of the way of prying eyes. His long arms curl about the body of his Stradivarius - one of the things Mrs. Hudson had carefully tucked away in the box of his possessions she'd gathered. She'd said she wanted to rent out the place, but Sherlock knew she was lying - he'd not seen any advertisements anywhere, and many of his belongings were still strewn about. It was like someone had tried to clean and given up halfway through. Dust - he remembers, dust coated the apartment when he walked in, and dust is so very telling.

His fingers press into the case of his violin, and the tall man sets his chin on top of the case, grey eyes focusing down at the school grounds. Wind buffets black curls into chaos, but the man doesn't seem to care much, only shifting to pull his coat more tightly around him to ward off the beginning of the autumn chill. He debates playing. He doesn't want to arouse attention and he certainly doesn't want any of the students coming up to investigate.

The school is fascinating, the people are fascinating - all of them with their unique abilities, watching girls float in and out of view, fireballs, super-speed, heightened reflexes - a whole gamut of intensely bewildering abilities. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes feels as if he is the ordinary one, and all of the people around him are terribly extraordinary.

He shoves that thought aside, boxing it up mentally to deal with it later in a more logical process that will take approximately three seconds to deal with, if he's remotely sleepy. He's not ordinary - he's just not shooting laser beams from his eyes or stepping through walls at a whim. The flutter of his scarf - caught by the wind - trails out behind him, a long, deep blue gash against a bright sky.

It would be a pretty lovely scene, if Sherlock had any mind to consider exactly how he looks - a tall, slender figure, pale as cream, garbed almost wholly in deep shades of black and purple, poised deep in thought on the edge of a building with the wind swirling around him.

He doesn't. He's too lost in his own thoughts to care, and the narrow of his grey eyes speaks volumes out of his silence.

Edited 2012-10-23 01:13 (UTC)

John wasn't even sure why he looked up at that moment. Maybe to check the sky for clouds, or to enjoy the bright sunshine despite the chill. London would probably be grey right now.

But, whatever it was, he wished it hadn't happened.

At the first sight of somebody up there, he felt an immediate chill and a touch of vertigo. He looked down, took a deep breath, and reminded himself that most of the students were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. Probably a flyer or teleporter.

Still, it wasn't exactly smart, he lifted his head again to call them down when the vertigo hit him again, stronger this time. That or something else. It looked like.... it looked like somebody it definitely wasn't.

Tasting bile, John lurched across the path to a bench and sat down.

Deep breaths.

It will pass.

There are two possibilities here. No. Three. The first, being that someone is impersonating his doctor. The second, he's hallucinating or that his mind has been somehow altered by this place (unlikely, mentally shoved aside), the third, is that somehow, impossibly, John Watson is -here-, at the Institute, bobbing about the grounds and apparently looking rather ill. Sherlock internally freezes for half a second. He's been seen, that much is certain, the line of John's eyes to his current location says that the man must have seen him.

The quickest way to find out is simply to come own off the roof, but he's not of a mind to, not just yet. Instead, he gets to his feet, staring down at the form of what is presumably his friend. The wind plucks at his coat and his hair, causing the coat to flare out artfully behind him (he's always privately admired that particular trait of the garment, it's just so beautifully dramatic. It lends presence.)

Sherlock plucks his new cellphone from his pocket, realizing that there is in fact, another quick way to see if that is in fact, his friend. Blessedly, the android device is enabled for international calling, and he dials John's number from memory. Will it ring? Did John even keep the same number after the fall? The number that appears on John's phone - if it rings, if it has service, and all the other needed variables is a number that's most positively not from London.

Pressing his lips together, Sherlock puts the phone to his ear and waits.

His stick had clattered onto the path when he'd retreated to the bench and it remained there, just another haunting memory, only to be replaced by another. A buzz in his pocket. With a shaking hand, he retrieved it. He'd deleted Sherlock's number, as suggested by Ella. But he couldn't quite get the digits erased from his memory.

He stared at it for a long while. Longer than he was able to bear looking to the roof.

He answered.

"I don't believe in ghosts," he said, voice shaking as much as his hands.

Sherlock bounces impatiently on the spot, lingering dangerously too close to the edge of the roof. Could he fall? Yes. Will he? Not unless he's just stupidly clumsy about it. Still, all the same, he takes a step back.

"Well, good," Sherlock's tone is dry, but his expression is wholly and completely unamused. The furrow of his dark brows over stormy, troubled eyes and the frown on his face are more than he'd wanted to betray. "Belief in the supernatural is a sort of mental deficiency I wouldn't have attributed to you."

"John," the name is breathed, rather than spoken, as if Sherlock's momentarily lost his voice for a second. He tries again. Even he's not impervious to memory, and the flash of this exact moment, the spray of blood from the back of Moriarty's head, John staring at him helplessly -...

"Look at me, John, I-..." Sherlock shuts his eyes to the sudden spin of the roof. He's never suffered of vertigo, but now it feels like the entire world might cave in on him. He inhales deeply, the cold air searing the back of his throat. The sensation throws him out of the cycle of gunshot, John, falling, pain, gunshot, John, falling...

It couldn't be him. Only it bloody well could. And what if it was? Did he hate him? Absolutely. Was he glad the idiot could possibly be alive? Sure as hell.

But it was too much to process. And it wasn't real. Maybe it could be but it wasn't. He was dead. John had seen him, had lifted an already cold wrist to find a pulse that wasn't there.

He hung up, face in his hands.

Mind readers, shapeshifters, technology altering kids... They could do this.

Sniffing, he picked up the phone and called back.

"If it's you, get of the roof. You owe me that much."

Sherlock stared down at his phone when he heard the line disconnect, and immediately tried to dial back. Being that phones are finicky creatures, his call bounces off of John's voicemail, and then when his phone rings, he's quick to pick it up again.

"Of course it's me, why wouldn't it be me?" the reply is definitely peeved, full of typical Sherlock grumpiness. Sherlock's brows furrow even harder in toward one another. "Come up here, John. The view is..." Gunshot. Moriarty crumpling to the ground, blood soaking his expensive suit. "The view is..." he pauses, pressing a hand to his face. Another deep, deep breath. He actually teeters a bit, but his teetering takes a step back.

"I... I'll come down," he murmurs, his voice sounding a bit more warbly than usual, and hits the end call button. He vanishes backwards off the rooftop, heading for the access door, down the ladder, down the rickety staircase and then back onto the grounds. He breaks out from the double doors, shoving them open impatiently. By the time he's back on the ground, he's regained his composure and his long strides bring him closer to the doctor.

There was uncertainty in that voice and it made John want to look up, want to see the vulnerability and feel like he was some fucking use after all. But then it was so unlike Sherlock and filled his mind with doubt once more.

He wanted to move. Go and hide in his office. His legs, however, weren't letting him. He'd bark at whatever little bastard student was doing this and then he'd find his way back.

How would he explain this one to Ella? He wouldn't, frankly.

Hearing footsteps approach, his felt his breath disappear.

Sherlock's mind pulled through every possibility, or at least all of the ones he could immediately think of. First, John didn't think it was him. Secondly, there were people here who could impersonate him, or at least impersonate other people. None of them would ever be remotely intelligent enough to come near to accurately portraying him, but John was emotional, and being emotional, seeing his dead friend might be stressful. Or so Sherlock sort of half-way thinks. There has to be a way to prove that he's real, that he's himself.

By the time he's made up his mind, he's standing in front of John, pulling off his coat. That he throws onto the bench next to the cane with a frown - the limp is back, apparently, and that displeases him more than anything.

His hands - white against the aubergine of his dress shirt, rise to unbutton the garment, the work quick. He pulls off his shirt, tossing it to the side as well. The fall, however it was supposed to happen, clearly didn't go as planned, and Sherlock despises himself for that. But he turns so John can see - bandages for cracked or broken ribs, severe bruising all across his chest and on his hip, abrasions marking his knuckles.

"There. That's proof enough, isn't it?"

John kept calmer than he thought possible at first. Only glancing at the coat, refusing to look up still. Could shifters copy clothes, would they remain the same when removed? He didn't know and he didn't care.

Under the horror and the confusion and the bile was a hot rage and it flew out of him when given 'proof' so casually. He didn't hold back this time. Screw Sherlock's damn face. Screw it if it was even a student. He lashed out, hitting again and again.

Sherlock has some training under his metaphorical belt, but John's sudden outburst catches him completely off guard. The first hit he takes in the face, square on, and it staggers him. When John flies at him again, Sherlock throws up his hands, and the first thing that comes to him is wing chun, so he rolls with it, since it doesn't require a whole mess of upper body movement save for the arms and hands. The flurry of blows gets half-heartedly deflected, most getting through to land on him, but then Sherlock has the chance to look into the fury on John's face and something inside of him cracks a little, just a tiny bit.

"John!" roars Sherlock "John, stop!" The lanky frame of the detective goes sprawling as another hit connects, and he just stays on the ground, grimacing visibly (an admission of pain that John might find uncharacteristic as well if he's clear-headed enough to notice.) He stays down though, breathing heavily, his lip and nose bleeding profusely. He turns his head to spit blood out of his mouth, and hopes the doctor doesn't pursue him to the ground.

"Please!" Sherlock gasps, staring up at John with a mixture of pain and - is that fear? mingling in his sharp features.

For the first few moments he stands over Sherlock, ready to strike again, breathing heavily.

"Please?" he laughs, spitefully. "PLEASE?!"

How many times had he shouted and begged at Sherlock's grave. That very word, over and over until he was hoarse, waiting for his friend to magically reappear, reveal the trick to be something so simple, so clever. And here he was.

"Who are you?"

Sherlock doesn't cringe, it's not in his nature, but his eyes narrow a bit and he sort of scoots back a bit. He doesn't bother to get up. Not only will it hurt, it'll give John free range to start beating on him again, and Sherlock's in enough pain already as it is. He wipes the blood off of his face with the back of his hand, but his nose keeps bleeding.

Inhaling steadily, Sherlock centers himself, relying again on his collection of martial arts training to bring a certain measure of calm back to his being. This was not the reaction he'd expected, and his mind spins to play out scenarios, to track the path of John's behavior.

A realization strikes Sherlock, and his mouth drops open a little, his breath coming in rasps. He coughs, and his eyes scrunch shut as he does because that, of all things, just hurts He may heal quickly, but broken ribs aren't exactly inclined to heal as quickly as he would like them to.

"Sherlock Holmes!" bellows Sherlock at John. Or he tries. It comes out weakly. He tries again. "John, it's Sherlock! What is wrong with you!?"

"You're dead! I watched you j- I saw you... I saw you.... There was no pulse.... you were bleeding. I tried to save you," he finished weakly.

A part of his coming here was to harness the power he'd ignored all his life, a supposed power that had failed to save Sherlock's life. He needed proof that he'd done all that he could. That he couldn't have done more if he'd just accepted being what he was.

"Fine. Tell me something. Anything, give me proof. If you're here...you know it's not enough just looking like somebody."

"Ball, under the armpit," breathes the detective, spitting blood from his lips and still trying to stem the flow of his nosebleed. It's clearing up just a bit quicker than John knows it should.

Then, he gets up from the ground. Carefully. It's probably painful for John to watch, too, because the man is usually so lithe and catlike in his motions. The careful, uncomfortable act of getting up off the ground is an effort and it shows in Sherlock's face, still etched with pain and confusion.

"John Watson. Captain. Doctor, soldier. Sister named Harriet, who I incorrectly assumed was a man because she goes by Harry. Alcoholic. Recently divorced when I met you. Harry left Clara. We met in the lab at Saint Bart's. You use to tell me that I was amazing every time I make any sort of deduction though thankfully you've stopped that behavior. I once locked you in a laboratory and drugged you to test my theory of the use of psychotropic drugs to keep a young man in fear and silence so that he wouldn't reveal the murderer of his father. You offered Irene Adler a napkin when she walked into the room naked, and you set off the smoke alarms in her house. Jim Moriarty once wired you with explosives and you threw himself at him to make sure I'd stay alive. Is that enough or do I need to keep going?"

Typical Sherlock aggravation is creeping back into his tone, now that he's got most of the pain from his ribs and his face filed away.

John steps back and watches Sherlock get up. Although it does pain him a little, there's also satisfaction there. He watches and listens and still avoids eye contact until that last hint of annoyance. He looks Sherlock in the eyes with something dark and vicious still.

There's no way he could have thought of all those things around the students or long enough for any to catch on. Some could be researched, but not all and never given so fluidly.....

"Sit down." He points at the bench and retrieves his stick from the ground. Sherlock was lucky he'd dropped it or it would most certainly have worked as a weapon.

The taller man averts his gaze almost immediately when John stares into his eyes, looking down at his feet, the grass, the sky - anything but the doctor's face, actually. He settles for John's left shoulder.

Sherlock has never sat down so quickly in his life. The blood on his lips has mostly finished coagulating, but his nose has a nasty reddish cast to it, and there will most certainly be a black eye later. There's a flicker of fear in his eyes as John picks up the cane, and he actually presses back into the bench, inhaling sharply.

He says absolutely nothing.

Assuming the flinch was some far too late sign guilt, John merely propped the stick up at the end of the bench. Sherlock looked better than he ought to and John was still a little unwilling when it came to the reason he himself was here. He wouldn't heal Sherlock. At least not yet.

He sat down.

"If you're not you...." he huffs, angrily.

"Really.... really.... sort of hate you right now."

Sherlock just stares at the ground in front of him. He goes to carefully pick up his shirt from the bench, shifting over to pick up his coat. He starts to pull on his shirt, but sort of forgets to finish the process, leaving it open to expose the bruising and the bandages.

He still doesn't say anything, but he looks cautiously over to John, as if the man might start beating him again. It's rather like scolding a child, and Sherlock just lets his hands lay idle in his lap.

It takes him a second, but he rummages in his coat pocket, and just hands John something - it's a ticket. From the Chinese circus where Sherlock had so rudely interrupted the doctor's date. It's rumpled, clearly been washed, sat upon, stuffed somewhere, collected somewhere else, but it's full of a pocket where Sherlock keeps most of everything.

"What about this?" he asks, rather softly. "Is this enough?"

He looks away because, damn it, men don't cry. He just holds the ticket and nods, face turned towards the school buildings. That had been a bloody awful date. But an incredible night. Seeing Sherlock in action. He was a lunatic. John doesn't turn back until he's collected himself again.

"Limp's back. Your fault this time."

Sherlock actually reaches out to touch John's shoulder, however briefly, and when his hand makes contact, he jerks it away and attempts to stand up. It doesn't work - his ribs are preventing him from any quick movements, and he just sort of settles back against the bench.

"We both know that'll go away. It really -was- brilliant though, John. How I lived through it. Molly was invaluable for once in her life. I wish I could have told you sooner, but..." he pauses. Does he really want to get into this now? Sending out leads to hunt down Moriarty's pawns from the hospital?

"... How long has it been?" he asks, as if the thought just occurred to him. His brows furrow in concern, and he attempts to look John in the face. "Wait. John. How long have you been on your own?"

What was that? He almost jumps. Was that a comforting gesture? A sign of humanity? John gives him a purposefully sceptical look before giving a grimace and shaking his head.

"Don't wanna hear it. Not right now. And Molly is constantly invaluable to you. Who else would let a deranged sociopath into a morgue with a riding crop?"

Shaking his head again to turn Sherlock away from his questioning, he eyes the bandages.

"I'm a doctor, you know. And a pretty good on at that."

"John, answer the question," Sherlock remarks curtly, reaching out to grab John's arm to keep him from touching the bandages. "How long has it been? Weeks? A few months? A year? It's important."

A pause.

"Anyone would let me into a morgue with a riding crop, that's just common sense," Sherlock frowns faintly at John. "I needing to see the pattern-..." and he just waves a hand, because John already knows and there's really no point in going on about it.

Sherlock releases John's arm to button his shirt peevishly. "I'm fine." He's really, really not.

"Months. Why? You should know. Then again, I guess you did hit your head pretty hard."

He sucks in a breath, feeling himself go a little light headed at the joke. He'd seen terrible things, but it was different when it was your friend. A friend like Sherlock.

"As I said, I'm a pretty good doctor so I know you're not."

Looking sidelong at him, he asked, "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock just averts his eyes, letting his hands drop down and mutters. "You left the flat. Mrs. Hudson was positively beside herself, you know. She was a wreck when I came back for the Stradivarius." Which he's left on the roof, but no matter, he'll go get it later, and the spot on the roof is in eyeshot from the bench.

The crack at humor gets a tired, worn smirk from Sherlock. "I'm fine, John, honestly, stop fussing."

The question about why he's come to the Institute? That one goes unanswered. Sherlock fidgets with the buttons on his sleeves. "Nice campus, isn't it?" The attempt at small talk is a bad one, and Sherlock doesn't do human well.

Sherlock Holmes - Sherlock [BBC]

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because this icon.

Dude y u do this.

I'm a bad man.

you're a mean one, mr holmes. omg he does look like the grinch.

yes, but less green.

and more mean (screw grammar I'm rhyming)

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