going to amat if he gets in, and he's got no say in it whatsoever

[deduce]

No matter how many Johns you find me, I still hate you with every fibre of my being. I've been a very patient man up until this point - yes, patient - but you're taking all of this several steps too far. Really, an island watched over by deities, collars that choke its victim until sexual gratification is received and Molly Hooper?

No, not interested. Take someone else. I couldn't care less if I'm the only 'muse' that's 'active', I've already gone somewhere somewhat similar and it ended up being incredibly dull work for the both of us, just in case you've gone and let yourself forget.

Oh, and one more thing; if you go through with this, I won't make it easy on you. No, I'm more than capable of giving you your fair share of migraines - where did you think they were coming from? Your eyes? Please - and I'm not above making your waking life a living hell. It'd be my pleasure, actually. Just give me a reason.

I've been cooped up here for days.

What do you mean, 'there's no smoking ban'? Well, that makes things slightly more tolerable. I'll think about it.

Comments

[deduce]

_{[Bitch, it is on.]}

I'm Sherlock Holmes; the world's only consulting detective. People don't get bored of me, I get bored of them.

No, this is nothing to do with whether she'll grow bored of me; she hasn't, and I've been here for years in one form or another - this is about the expiration point every game has for someone of my intelligence.

Fortunately for you it's something you'll never have to worry about.

[immortalbeauty]

[Here, he'll lean back and even casually shove his hands in his pockets.]

Well, intelligent individuals would know of ways for that 'expiration date' to never see the light of day. It is however, unintelligent - and quite a spectacle I must say! - to worry. Come now, my dear gentleman, here, have a cigarette. Enough with your prattle and panic.

[Here, have some really good cigs.]

[deduce]

Oh, no, you don't understand. It's not about the expiration period, it's about the boredom that it signifies.

<sub>[Because this isn't regular boredom; no, this is the type of boredom that would drive anyone with a mind like Sherlock's insane, and it has, and it does, and it will again. Games lack puzzles, and without puzzles, Sherlock quickly falls into disarray because that's how things go.

Oh, and cigarettes. He hesitates, but it's a short moment before tugging one loose and inspecting it.

Strange, off label but it's not been rolled by him either. A brand he's never heard of. Old - certainly to Sherlock's standards. He's said it himself; he's from the eighteenth century. So this cigarette is apart of the great binge; what a time to be alive. He's almost jealous.]</sub>

You haven't told me your name.

[immortalbeauty]

Indeed I haven't.

[While you, dear sir, have quite uproariously mentioned your name. Quite a few times unless Dorian's memory has failed him. Dorian pulls a lighter out and offers it to Holmes.]

Dorian Gray, Mister Holmes. It's a pleasure.

[Oh and it is indeed a pleasure because Dorian is quite fascinated by how this fellow works, how he is simply quite out of the ordinary in the way he speaks, his arrogance even, how he dresses, how he views the world around him. A good source of entertainment, like how the rest of the world is to Dorian these days. Mostly.]

[deduce]

<sub>[Well, that's because his name is always worth mentioning. He's brilliant. Everyone knows that.

He graciously leans forwards, inhaling in and oh that is strong. Perfection. He couldn't even make something this strong, not without mixing various tobaccos together. And even then - the dosage wouldn't be exact, it'd all be done approximately.

But then he pauses upon hearing his name. He frowns, looks at him - no signs of lying, a quiet smugness about his name and the things he's done and oh, yes, that fake charm that's been annoying Sherlock from the very beginning. Well.

Oh, but he shouldn't get ahead of himself. It's just a name. He needs proof; something that'll make him visibly stumble or flinch.]</sub>

Thank you. I've read about a Dorian Gray. I'm sure you get it all of the time, mind.

<sub>[And here is where Sherlock shows his charm, because he can be perfectly amiable when the moment suits him. He smiles wistfully, dragging on his cigarette as he pretends to think back to his childhood. Like he even needs the pause.

He leans forwards purposefully, looking as though it were a mere shift of movements, but it's not, it's sly and he's watching oh so carefully.]</sub>

Something about a painting, wasn't it?

[immortalbeauty]

[The painting. Right.

Dorian has been getting many questions and praises about that infamous painting, that one picture that has been the talk of dinners, weddings and afternoon tea alike. But there is something to be said about the objects that remain close to a person, the one that rots and peels with secrets that can't be held within the weave of canvas prison that holds it together and away from the world.

But this is high society. There is much propriety and politics to dance with.

It comes so easily now, the lies, the hiding, like the gathering of dust brought in by the cold winds of a city moving into a new age with the passage of time that hides the evidence of demonic sins.

Its easy to smile with dimples that hollow and eyes that twinkle even if the slow inhale that segues to a puff of an amused chuckles quality belies the tension that pulls at the cartelliges within the spine.

The lighter claps shut and Dorian tucks it away while his hands sinks back into his pockets. His gaze flicks away briefly, lightly playing the bashful card.]

Oh yes, that painting. They've written about me now, I see…

[He looks up and briefly cocks an eyebrow.]

Didn't think talk about that painting has reached far. Then you must have read about the man responsible for that piece of work. Basil Hallward. A good friend of mine, he'd be most pleased to know his best and most prized work has reached far and wide.

[Because what else would it be about?

(No one knows of what lies behind lock and key. And no one ever will. It is impossible.)

That is all this man is talking about. That is all it must be.]

[deduce]

<sub>[Sherlock smiles politely; so it's a game he wants. Well, Dorian's certainly picked himself a brilliant opponent.

He watches with trained eyes as Dorian hides his shock - oh, and he does hide it well, Sherlock doesn't mind admitting that. Begrudging respect, but he still intends to tear little Dorian down, because Dorian hadn't met his match yet and Sherlock was more than willing to step up.

Sherlock holds his mask as firmly as Dorian holds his; he's lazily flicking the ash away from his cigarette as he feigns a vague interest in the painting, because showing more would give his hand away far too quickly.]</sub>

He's certainly talented; it was in the Daily Telegraph. That must be how I recognised you.

_{[To assume that he's seen it is amusing in of itself - and to think he was bored moments ago! He's certainly interested now, easily buttering him up because he knows precisely how one responds to an ego boost and oh he must be thrilled, thinking he's got one over on Sherlock Holmes. Even if he hadn't heard of the name yet, he'd be sure to remember it for years to come.]}

Though it's a bit strange that you've gone to the extent of hiding it behind closed doors where no one will ever see it. It's almost like you have something to hide.

<sub>[But he chuckles the thought away, instead of leaving it out there to be considered a threat. Because now he wants to watch the tension roll over his spine before it immediately disperses.

He almost misses playing with people like this - not that he'd ever tell John that.]</sub>

[immortalbeauty]

It's precious to me.

[Then clearly this man has heard of how the painting is no longer open for viewing in his estate. The question does pop up here and there after all so if the man has seen his picture in the newspaper, then it must have been that one photograph that had been taken in his estate with Harry and Basil.

So its pretty easy to nod in agreement, but not at all easy to bat away the slight discomfort that settles in his stomach at how the words are said. What lies underneath the tone, the look that comes with it.

(But it might just be in your head, that paranoia. It happens you know? When you obsessively guard over something so precious?)]

In my estate, where the picture used to hang, I feared that the light would ruin it. And London's winter can be quite harsh. So I've kept it. You shoulder consider perhaps commissioning my friend for your own picture. He will do you great justice.

[Here, have a smile that might even borderline to fondness when he speaks of Basil. It's how you play the social game after all, go with the flow and play stupid and steer the subject away from what's making the balls of his feet feel numb. After all, it has worked quite well in Dorian's favor.]