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[Sherlock Holmes is on the roof with his magnifierkind focusing the sun's rays to set fire to Imps. And trees. He may not be being very careful, really. It all looks the same from up there and the weaponization of a magnifying glass is quite interesting.

He is a mad scientist with a death ray. He really can't help but laugh at that.]

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...Sherlock.

What the bloody hell are you doing?

I'm playing with fire.

And you're destroying the whole area. Don't make me come up there.

Is that you, Mycroft?

No, it's your doctor, who very much knows where you sleep and is in control of most, if not all, of the food resources you consume.

Be afraid, Mr. Pyromaniac.

It's an event, John. A combat event. I'm allowed to set things on fire. In fact, I am encouraged to set things on fire.

A combat event...

...Figures you'd get that sort of ability. You're just... sitting on the roof setting things on fire then? A cuppa and then more fire?

Sugar and milk. Thanks.

That wasn't a--

Oh fine, you... demanding dolt.

[In a bit, he makes his way onto the roof, barefoot and in his black and white stripped shirt and dark jeans--not in any dress that indicates a god tier level. He has two paper cups, one in each hand, which is Sherlock's tea and his own.]

[Sherlock is chillin' with his legs dangling off the side of the roof in his god tier awesomeness. He can fly so sitting right on the edge doesn't really bother him. Falling off of roofs is easy anyway.

He looks over at John and smirks.]

Despite what it looks like, John, this isn't a pajama party.

Edited 2012-05-22 00:41 (UTC)

[John raises his eyebrows as he walks over, taking in the odd outfit. It certinally looks like pajamas, but at the same time, it oddly suits the detective. Perhaps it's the shades of green--something the detective rarely wears--and somehow looks so nice pared with the pale skin and dark curls, making his grey eyes seem to have their own green tint.]

Not your usual sleepwear, I have to say... You mind not sitting to close to the edge?

[He's offering the other his cup of tea, even as he eyes the way Sherlock sits on the roof, nervousness palpable.]

Not as though I'm in any danger.

[To demonstrate, he slides off the roof... only to drop a few feet before flying up and landing on his feet beside John. He holds his hand out for his tea, thanks.]

Sherlock--!!

[John cries out between a gasp and a scream, jolting forward, only to bite it off in shock as the other man hovers, flies, and lands next to him, taking his intended drink from John's limp fingers. The doctor's jaw hangs open in shock.]

...You can fly, too?

John, there's a lack of observation and then there is just stupid. You get only one guess as to which your question makes you guilty of.

[He sips his tea. Perfect.]

I'm a bit more interested in why you can't fly. And why you're wearing normal attire. Why are we different? You have a weapon, yes?

[John only makes one of his multiple irritated expressions at the jab at his intelligence, instead moving his focus onto the other's questions.]

A 'guntype.' A pair of them, actually. Don't seem much different from normal guns, though.

[He has them on in a pair of hip holsters hidden under his long jumper.]

I'm... not sure why I can't. But to be fair, seeing as I don't have any new fancy get up, I haven't been inclined to try, honestly.

Whatever the rules are in this event world, we're not held in the same regard. I've seen too many morons flying around in colored garb to think that intelligence is the deciding factor. And the varying degrees of combat skill don't make me think this is the mark of a lesser fighter.

Well, what do your guns do?

...Shoot things?

[Figures even the thing he did get from this new world wouldn't be that special. John doesn't feel bad, per say, just a bit confused. Why was he so different from Sherlock, from everyone else? Well, there was that other thing... but it wasn't much compared to flying and shooting laser beams...]

I did notice one thing that was different...

[He licks his lips thoughtfully, fiddling with his cup of tea.]

I was sure I'd nicked myself shaving this morning, but... there wasn't a cut.

[Sherlock raises an eyebrow.]

Really? You think you have healing abilities then.

[His mouth twitches.]

At least with healing myself, yeah. Sliced my hand after that to make sure. Thought I'd be thorough.

[Holds it up, there isn't even a line in the skin where he'd dragged the razor across his palm.]

I don't know if it's just... me though. If I can only heal myself. Would be silly, wouldn't it? A doctor who could only heal himself.

[Sherlock looks over the wall at the things below either on fire or that could be made to burn.]

I'm sure we could think of a way to test that.

[John follows his gaze, out onto the destruction the detective has caused.]

You're thinking I should try and heal the Imps you're burning?

I suppose it is rather wasted on them...

[He holds his magnifyingkind out and aims the light at his own palm.]

No, Sherlock...! Your hand...!

[John drops his tea and grabs for Sherlock's hand, wincing as the smell of burnt flesh hits the air.]

[Sherlock grimaces.]

It's fine. Second degree. Rather hope it pays off all the same.

[John carefully cups the burned hand between his own, thumb caressing softly along the edge of the injury, expression pinched.]

You've far too much faith in me. I don't even know how to do this...

[Gently, John brushed his fingers against the damaged skin, focusing on it in a way he hoped would knit the burn back together into clear, perfect pale skin. He felt warmth rise under his hands...]

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