You know who doesn't have any impulse control? Me.

[napoleonsgun]

If you're waiting for praise, you won't be getting it from me. What you do isn't so hard. Lest you forget, I've had my go at the typewriter too.

Find the Professor. Then I might be a bit more receptive to all of this.

Might.

Comments

[playthings]

Don't go overestimating their intelligence.

[napoleonsgun]

I've got my failings, but that ain't one of 'em.

[He's looking at this Moriarty suspiciously because... well it walks like a Moriarty and it talks like a Moriarty but he's also like five years old and Sebastian doesn't understand.]

Underestimating, on the other hand...

[He certainly did with you, once upon a time. Not that it lasted.]

idek man HE'S RUSTY

[playthings]

Hmm, yes, and there are so many of those, aren't there?

[ and he's suspiciously like a sniper he once bossed around but couldn't quite properly house train. ]

Tsk tsk Sebastian, you should know by now how dangerous that can be.

I still hear his voice loud and clear. <3

[napoleonsgun]

Haven't received a complaint since my dismissal from the Army.

Not to worry, I've learnt my lesson... James.

[That might be a direct refutation of his statement but sometimes, to get a proper assessment of an animal, you need to rattle the cage.]

[playthings]

I'll leave you to figure out the irony of that.

[ yes, he will talk down to you as though you're an utter idiot if you keep saying these things. really, moran. ]

....Excuse me?

[napoleonsgun]

[There's the verification he was looking for. That's James Moriarty, alright. Smaller, and with a voice he can't even begin to fathom, but equally deadly. Sebastian stands straighter.]

Not sure if you still answer to "professor," sir.

[playthings]

[ narrowed eyes give this victorian excuse for a hired gun the once over with just about as much contempt as he can manage without scowling. ]

I don't know, would the one you usually call "professor" have your head for any less?

[napoleonsgun]

Mounted on his wall, I'm sure.

But you're not exactly him, are you?

AMY HERE

[thingcalledjoe]

Who you lookin' for? You ain't gonna get much luck with muns.

[napoleonsgun]

Professor James Moriarty.

That what they call authors these days? Either way, this one is at least open to my ideas. Why, I couldn't tell ya.

[thingcalledjoe]

You mean the guy in the stories?

That's what I call 'em, I sure as hell ain't calling her an author.

[napoleonsgun]

[His nose wrinkles in irritation.]

A fan of Watson's work, then. In that case, yeah, the fella from the stories. Although I wouldn't believe everything you read if I was you.

[thingcalledjoe]

Hey, I don't read that much. I just know the name.

[napoleonsgun]

You'd be hard pressed to find someone who doesn't, reading or not.

[There's a touch of pride for his boss in there.]

[thingcalledjoe]

So he's real?

[napoleonsgun]

[His brow furrows because... well of course.]

As real as you or me.

[thingcalledjoe]

[Joe is not a well-read dude. He doesn't keep up with the news much either. He did when his best friend was in the war, but. You know.]

Huh. Like I said, I don't read much so I wouldn't know.

[napoleonsgun]

If you ever do get in the habit, do yourself a favor and skip Dr. Watson's work.

[thingcalledjoe]

He sounds about as exciting as paint dryin', but why anyway?

[napoleonsgun]

Good assessment. And to start, it's the wrong side of the story.

[thingcalledjoe]

Which means?

[napoleonsgun]

They think they're heroes, those two. Nothing worse than the drivel of a man who declares himself a hero.

[thingcalledjoe]

[snrk] That's for sure, I hear it first-fuckin'-hand all the time. The hero's a sucker.

If you wanna know a secret, most of 'em shut up real fuckin' fast when you slip 'em some scarole. But it's worse when they actually believe their own bullshit.

[napoleonsgun]

Well there's an answer for the believers too.

[thingcalledjoe]

Depends on how much they like money, but yeah.

[adversary]

I should think we will find you receptive regardless of the Professor.

[ also fuck that guy, says irene. ]

[napoleonsgun]

Well, there are ways of keeping a man entertained in the meantime.

[He grins sharply, teeth showing.]

Hello again, Miss Adler.

[claytobricks]

Looking in the wrong place for the good professor, aren't you? Needs a bit more brimstone.

[napoleonsgun]

If anyone should know about the wonders of resurrection, it ought to be you, Mr. Holmes.

Why, I've already spoken to those who supposedly shuffled the mortal coil once today. Twice if we're countin' yourself.

[claytobricks]

[That gets a very empty laugh.]

This place has its ways of bending the laws of science, I'm sure you'll note.

[bakedstreet]

[Gladstone is fashionably late to this party, but only because he just got over another experiment (that is, he's no longer drugged to the gills, praise Jesus!).

Fashionably late, and this man is very fashionable, and they can be extremely fashionable together. Two fashionable fellows out and about town, even! It's the perfect pair.

But Mister Fashionable seems to be Mister Grumpy Gus about something or other, and Gladstone knows grumpy. His face makes him look grumpy constantly, no one knows grumpiness quite like an astute English bulldog. He knows some people don't like dogs (because they have no soul to speak of, how his kind master married a woman without a soul is beyond him), but Gladstone can't help what he is. So instead of barking, he decides to sniff his boots and maybe even lick them if he'll stand still long enough. Ooh, he tastes like gunpowder, Gladstone is falling into his trap already.]

okay so I love you

[napoleonsgun]

[As it happens, Sebastian is one of those soulless types who doesn't like dogs. Not exactly a friend to all animals, this big game hunter. He levels a look at the dog, before mildly shaking his boot to get the dog out of the picture. Nothing too drastic yet, as this isn't a particularly annoying creature.]

Get out of here.

there is no me there is only Gladstone

[bakedstreet]

[Gladstone has yet to woo and win the love of Missus Watson, but he's biding his time. He has plenty of time, time before his race of alien bulldogs come to rescue him and rule humanity. Before that can happen, he must kill Sherlock Holmes for his abuse, of course, but before even that, apparently? He has to woo another soulless human being. The tragedy.

(Of course, it's possible Gladstone only thinks of himself as an alien from a planet of dogs due to the fact of the matter that Sherlock keeps him out of his mind. Doyle hasn't cemented either way.)

The shaking of his boot is a good sign that Gladstone isn't welcome. Another good sign? Him telling him to get out. Those are both very clear signs that Gladstone is an unwanted intrusion into the life of Mister Fashionably Grumpy. But Gladstone is a dog, and dogs have wet, dark eyes. When used properly, they can make even the most rigid of ladies bend at the knee to pick him up. It's a trick he learned as a puppy, a rite of passage for all dogs, small and large alike. And even though it doesn't always work on the surly types, Gladstone steps back enough to look up at him. My God, it's full of cute.

And his stubby little tail is wagging. Maybe, if he could talk, Gladstone would be saying Make me and initiating a challenge. As it is, however, he's just a friendly bulldog who only cares about getting petted, drooling on fine clothes, and snorting in distaste whenever he's been treated badly.

Look at this face and despair, Sebastian.]