dear_mun | Apping to theinstitute and exsilium

I'm an honor student, so this gets my attention. The hell is up with the "what" exclamation that seemed to temporarily halt your train of thought?

"Place called Exsilium," Sherlock replies, steepling his fingers to peer over from where he's sprawled on a conveniently placed couch. "Heard of it?"

Nah, this is the first time I've ever heard the word spoken. You have any wild guesses to what it is exactly and who the "gifted" in question are?

"No. No. This 'Institute' place is the place that's the school for the 'gifted'," Airquotes all around, Sherlock. The man doesn't look terribly enthused about having to explain himself to what appears to be a child.

"Exsilium is some sort of deranged battleground for the betterment of a revolutionary movement against the United Earth. Or something, and really, I can't imagine why anyone would want to voluntarily go there." He tugs his coat peevishly around his lanky frame, eyeing the young woman.

"So what are you supposed to be?" An eyebrow raised.

I know that, I know that, but the "gifted" could mean a multitude of things. Are we talking mutants? Wizards and witches? Or just people who've been given gifts for their birthdays or holidays. "Gifted", get it?

I find it curious that you asked me "what" I'm supposed to be, rather than "who" I'm supposed to be? Perhaps you're super good at deduction and already have me pegged?

Edited 2012-10-25 23:32 (UTC)

"Mutants. Witches and wizards. Freaks. Geeks. The whole nine yards," Sherlock explains huffily, still keeping his eyes on the girl. The faint narrowing and the furrow of his dark brow is all that betrays his examination of her.

"Deduction is easy. Extrapolating the data is what makes me a genius," Sherlock replies, inhaling steadily.

But you don't seem to be any of those things you mentioned just now. You seem like an everyday Joe to me. Actually, no. I take that back. From the way you talk, you come off as a geek. I had no idea geeks were qualified as "gifted", but hey, sometimes society's punching bags turn out to be something special.

"The data." Is that so?

Edited 2012-10-25 23:49 (UTC)

The stare that Sherlock levels on the girl is both irritated and wholly unamused. "Gifted isn't the term people use for me, typically." The response is terse, clipped off.

"Data. Yes. Everyone has data, everything in the world has information on it. People observe so much all the time, but they never really see it, and they certainly don't follow the logical thought processes involved to understand what they're seeing. Everything from a bit of fur on someone's pants - telling me they've a dog or a cat - or from the way they hold themselves or the way their flat's done up. Everything has a reason, an answer, a logical progression of events or a sequence of time that lead for that object or person to provide information to me. That's what I do. I see all of that. I can't -not- see any of that. Everything is terribly simple and boring most of the time and no one sees it. So no, I'm not gifted, I'm plagued by information, young lady, and so very little of it matters. It's like trying to hear a fellow with a bad case of laryngitis talking in a crowded room, make sense or do I need to use smaller words?"

Another stare. "Are we done? I'm sure you think you're intelligent, but you've the made the mistake that most children make in thinking that you belong in the conversation with adults."

Oh, I can only imagine the term people use for you. Scracth that: the number of terms people use for you!

Woah. Fascinating. I've extrapolated data like that before. I'm observing some serious data from you now, and I would even if you hadn't just come out and told me what the matter with you is. You say you're plagued by information? You ever thought of getting a lobotomy or something? Maybe I could do that. My father has a medical degree, and I've studied how he performs his surgery. I've even read up alot of info on 'em from his books. Some of it's actually a heck of a lot easier to perform than it is to read about.

I know I don't really belong in a conversation with adults, but I have known many children, many girls my age who were let into the conversation by adults. And paid the price for it. So why should they have to be the ones to shoot first? Why can't someone like me start it up for a change? And I can hold my own in an intelligent conversation, even with people who don't even deserve the attention I give 'em.

Edited 2012-10-26 00:06 (UTC)

A pause. Another long stare. Sherlock tucks his coat around him, adjusting the long blue length of his cashmere scarf. He just listens, unblinking, unmoving except for the small compensations to his wardrobe.

"You don't deserve any attention, really. You're just a schoolgirl with a superiority complex. Good day." A tight smile to the girl, and he turns on his heel and stalks off, his coat fluttering behind him.

[Hayley can't stop laughing to herself now.]

Superiority complex? I know who and what I am. He's the one with the superiority complex. In fact, he probably has a bunch of other complexes that I probably don't want to know about.

And he's totally been doing drugs and alcohol too. Of course, that's just a "deduction of data" for ya. [Eyeroll]

Edited 2012-10-26 01:17 (UTC)

[OOC: Hey Sherlock can you tell from the clothes of this rough looking chav that he's gay?]

It's not one of them sex places innit? Me Mun has been looking at that place too. [Said in a thick Yorkshire accent]

"It isn't one of those sex places, is it? Your ... mun... has been looking at that place as well," Sherlock corrects, boredly. His grey eyes sweep over the form of the chavtastic individual before him, taking in details, mannerism, posture.

[ooc: it depends, anything on him that would give that away? only what you as the player feel comfortable with sharing because info!modding = sadface.]

[Aaron scowls]

What, you get a kick out if correcting people?

[OOC: It's Sherlock, right? He can see everything. Can't say there would be anything on Aaron's person which would give his queerness away though. Fashion is not his strong point, he's not feminine or use gay mannerisms. At this canon point he's self harming 'cos he lost his first boyfriend (by hitting his fist into the tombstone of his old bf and by cutting himself), he's a mechanic, he got his track-suit bottoms sticked into his socks (make of that hat you want), he does no longer have a dog and he's living of small wages in a small village. Oh he likes sandwiches with marmalade. He's also suffering from abandonment and father's issues and an over bearing mother. Got a profile on his journal btw.]

Edited 2012-10-26 00:08 (UTC)

"No, you're just wrong," Sherlock provides unhelpfully. His eyes flick away from the man.

[ooc: noted. <3]

Aaron scrunches his face. Who does this man think he is? Aaron gives him a look over trying ti figure out if he's mental or something.

"I'm not wrong 'cos I speak in a certain way," Aaron responds with a frown touching his features.

"No, but it makes you, and the rest of the world sound idiotic. Not that you can really help that, so I won't blame you too much."

A silence of a few seconds. "You ... really should stop hitting things," Sherlock drones, looking down at his cell-phone to flick through a series of e-mails. An observant eye will note Sherlock's glanced at the other man's knuckles more than once. The other man doesn't even seem to be catching the majority of his interest yet.

Edited 2012-10-26 00:39 (UTC)

"Gee, my deepest apologizes that my small village dialect hurts your ears then," Aaron responds sarcastically.

Aaron flinches when the other man points that out and he shoves his hands deep into his pockets. Sherlock might also notice that his breath has a slight touch of alcoholic smell in it and that his shoes are a bit muddy with a few grass strains on them.

"That's none of your business, ey," Aaron then says.

"Don't bother," Sherlock intones softly, tapping a few icons on the screen of his phone with long fingers. "

"Everything's my business. Problem?" He looks up from his phone to watch the young man carefully, inhaling carefully of the mild stench of alcohol and human breath out of the air. "Mildly intoxicated, mud on shoes, bruised knuckles, potentially hairline fractures if you've been hitting whatever it is you've been hitting hard enough. Maybe stone? Maybe a rock, who knows. Biking?" A nod to the track pants tucked into the socks. "I'm guessing no car. Yorkshire accent likely, thick and you've just told me small village, so that puts you likely in a lower income bracket than the majority of citygoers, and it's unlikely you've ever ventured much outside of the village..." it's like he's casually making a laundry list. The level of emotional investment in his tone is about on par with the ambient humidity in the desert. Which is to say, none at all. His ticking off of the man's features as easily as one might say, 'Bread, eggs, milk, laundry detergent.'

Aaron just listens wide-eyed. That had indeed came as a shock that the man knew so much about him from... something. Something moved in the back of his head. The powers of deduction reminded him of someone from somewhere. Most of what he said was true too except a few things.
"I got a license and I don't bike," he pointed out. True he didn't actually had a car. He always borrowed one when he had to. "And I have been to Bristol, Leeds and Hotten several times," he then added. True he didn't do that often, except going in to Hotten. Without thinking he touched the St. Christopher medallion he had worn ever since... THAT day. Some memories still hurt.

"Details," Sherlock waves a hand dismissively, going to tuck his cell phone away. "No, it's not a "sex place." One is a school for rather unusual individuals, and the other is a battleground. Anything else?"

"Hm, true," Aaron responded. He quietly nodded as he listened to what Sherlock said. "Nope. Welcome," Aaron answered with a shrug.

"Good day, then," Sherlock murmurs, wandering off to who knows where with a lift of his hand in farewell.

Aaron rolls his eyes at the very stranger person and leaves too.

Would John ever actually let you near children for any length of time?

The arrival of the woman actually evokes a muted look of surprise from Sherlock. His eyebrows shoot up into dark curls and he shifts on his feet to approach her with light steps.

"Miss Adler," he greets in an undertone.

Her lips twitch in a ghost of a smile at his look of surprise. Arch amusement gilds her tone even as she matches his, "Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock regards the woman for a long couple of moments. He's actually uncharacteristically quiet, grey eyes fixed upon her. His expression reads as neutral, but the clasp of his hands, open, shut says otherwise.

"What," he asks quietly, still keeping her firmly in his line of sight. "Are you doing here?"

She arches an eyebrow at him, her expression calm despite the fact that her eyes have already taken in the way his hands flex and the way he is moving around her. She sounds utterly conversational as she responds, "Wondering whether or not the good doctor will let you near children. Isn't it obvious?"

Or possibly to irritate him. Both, possibly.

"And why would John have anything to do with whether or not I'm allowed around children?" He's studying her now - perhaps to no avail. Perhaps some little quirk or nuance of her clothing, her voice will give him a clue? "Anyway, I wouldn't be around children, I'd be working in the library, presumedly avoiding human contact."

His eyes narrow faintly. Gears turn behind his habitually irritated cast.

"He usually has an opinion on the things you do, if I recall correctly." A touch of smugness there. She knows she's right. A faint smile tugs at her mouth again as she watches him studying her. She is certain what he'll find. A touch of mud against her shoes, still wet, but of utterly unremarkable colour and consistency. A touch of red in her hair, from her latest disguise in death. Hardly enough clues to go on.

"What a pity. You could have terrified an entire generation of 'gifted' children in chemistry."

"If you call adolescents with superhuman abilities 'gifted', then certainly. Most of them probably don't even have half the mind to understand the subtleties of chemistry." Sherlock exhales shortly, partly in irritation toward the woman's self-assured smirk. "I'm fairly certain John won't have anything to say on the matter."

That last bit is clipped off, and Sherlock's eyes tighten a bit before he turns to pace a couple of steps away, dipping into his pocket to pluck out his cellphone. He taps at the icons on the screen, spins it deftly between two fingers and the deposits the device back into his pocket.

She simply watches him fiddle with his mobile and lets silence stretch after he tucks it away again. "Of course not. Just like how you are utterly unconcerned at the moment."

Her tone is clear. Liar who lies, Sherlock.

"He won't," Sherlock assures the woman with a dry, tight smile. "Are you still tying people up or have you moved on?" The question comes light and quiet, the smile immediately fading from his lips. His hands slide back into his pockets and he rocks back onto his heels to regard Irene in further silence.

"That's a bit difficult when your clients all think you're dead," she answers wryly. Irene crosses her arms in front of her, a smile tugging at her lips again. "But I'm not in any hurry to hide away in libraries, if that was what you were asking."

"Indeed," breathes Sherlock. Due to the unstable nature of the time space continuum here, there's always a couch when he needs one to drape himself with overdramatic gusto. And drape he does, complete with a short sigh. There's an armchair for Irene, if she's in the mood to sit. Steepling his fingers, he stares at the ceiling, or whatever passes for a ceiling.

"So are you here just to annoy me or was there some other reason?" Pale eyes cut back over to Irene. Another sweep for any sort of information, very likely fruitless.

She remains standing, because she enjoys being unpredictable, enjoys throwing off his deductions. And the presence of the armchair means he expects her to sit, or to want to sit, so she doesn't. Instead, Irene steps back to study him, another twitch at her lip as she catches him looking her over again.

"Am I really annoying you, Mr. Holmes? Or is that just a convenient attempt to be dismissive?"

Sherlock seems to find that his phone is fascinating at this point - it is a new one. Not his iPhone 4 but what appears to be an Android based device. If Irene knows or cares, it's a Galaxy Nexus. He taps away at it. If she's nosy enough to look, he's scrolling through music.

He's completely (and perhaps disappointingly) silent. Maybe if he holds very, very still, Irene will grow bored with him and wander off. He'd done her what most people would consider a kindness, but that was behind him, and she had also danced far too close to Moriarty for his liking.

"Oh," Sherlock doesn't look up. "You're still here?"

It doesn't matter that he doesn't look up, as she walks behind the couch. It not only allows her to catch a glimpse of his phone, but also to be, at least for the moment, out of his line of sight.

"I think the better question is why are you still here rather than in that library you were speaking of, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock doesn't even look up when Irene slips behind his sofa. The phone is spun in his hand and stuffed unceremoniously back into his pocket. Apparently Sherlock likes Vivaldi, Bach and a number of obscure Icelandic singers. He exhales shortly, his attention back up on the woman.

"Because." The reply is terse, and he offers no more on the subject.

"I saved your life. What more do you want?" The crispness of his consonants betrays unease, though his peevishness has a tired edge to it. As if Sherlock could sound weary of it all. "Waiting for me to come chasing after you as you bumble your way around? Oh dear, Mister Holmes come save me from it all?" A sneer touches cupid bow lips, and Sherlock curls up on his side to stare into the empty space of the chair across from him

She leans against the back of the couch, her back towards him as she scrutinizes the wall and its convenient window. "So is that how you like to remember it? The dashing hero swooping in to save the damsel in distress."

Irene laughs, low and deeply amused. "Positively sentimental of you."

There's a tight, unhappy smile for Irene now on Sherlock's face, and he shifts in the sofa. "Sentiment? No, Miss Adler, not sentiment. After all, it was your downfall that saved my reputation. Don't you remember? Tears in your eyes, lip quivering, hoping for one last manipulation of the people around you." He exhales shortly out of his nose, and then sound turns to a cruel laugh. "Nothing about you is real. That's how you survive. You're whatever anyone wants you to be."

Sherlock curls deeper into his sofa, staring at Irene, daring her to keep eye contact.

Her eyes narrow, and for a moment there is a spark of anger in them. Just for the moment, and her expression remains cool and archly amused once the spark dies. Losing is a sore point, and she knows it. She also know he knows it, and is pushing it on purpose.

Which, of course, leads to figuring out why he's pushing. Because he might say it now, but he had been there, exactly when she'd needed him to be, in Karachi. And even now keeps trying to figure out why she is even here.

"If that were true, you would have been more than happy to have never set foot in Pakistan. And yet here we are."

"You're the only worth adversary I have anymore," Sherlock sighs, looking up to Irene with a patently Sherlock expression - patience mingled with annoyance. "Moriarty was too simple. Too easy. What fun would it be if I'd let you die?" He stretches out languidly over the couch with a feigned yawn. To be fair, Moriarty -hadn't- been easy, and Irene was more of a thorn in his side than anything else. but he wasn't about to admit that.

"Here we are, Miss Adler, indeed."

Apping to theinstitute and exsilium

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but seriously though The Institute looks pretty cool.

probably not for a mechanic from a small village though

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post!reichenbach sherlock is unamused.

to be fair, even pre!reichenbach Sherlock is rarely amused by Irene.

yes, but jawwwwwn. forgive my slow on phone.

'Salright!

Thanks. I am a little new to this guy.

We were all new at some point. That's part of the fun! <3

<3

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