001 - Sherlock Holmes - Accidental Video

[could_be_dangerous]

[There are problems, and then there are problems. Case in point: Sherlock has been staring down at this mobile for three... no, two minutes and forty-seven, not that it matters; nothing has changed, and that, there it is: the problem. It's pristine. Nothing on it but his own fingerprints, a bit of dust, and that's a problem too.

This is not his mobile.

This room certainly isn't the one in which he'd fallen fitfully asleep last night, clothed on a grimy mattress in an unofficial lodging house. The place had smelled of mildew, unwashed bedclothes, of the smoke of cigarettes and plenty of other unsavoury things.

This room... this room is something else entirely, and this mobile too. Everything is just as bare. Untouched. Uncanny. It makes the hair at the nape of his neck stand on end, this... quietness.

He's looked himself over. No marks. No puncture wounds. Nothing, not even hidden by hair or hairline. It's not possible.

Three minutes. Nothing has changed. Nothing but a few breaths more, a few more minutes' worth of oxidation, inching closer to death, as though that matters, ha, as though it'll be any more intolerable than this. Less, really, less intolerable than this, certainly less intolerable than the endless stretch of endless days full of nothing but inanity, stimuli without purpose, the white noise of constant sensory bombardment with no thread to tie it together, dull days on the couch, smell of leather fabric cigarettes (faintly) Mrs. Hudson's perfume (from the hallway) third step on the way up always creaks and the floor isn't quite cool enough most days to be soothing to bare feet. Even silk chafes, the sound of the shower running makes him want to slam his head in a door until it stops, just stops, all of it st--

Sherlock presses his lips thin.

There comes from deep in his throat a noise of frustration, and the video feed is suddenly obscured by a large hand, sweeping the mobile across the desk on which it sits and depositing it into a pocket. There comes the sound, faintly muffled, of chair legs scraping across the floor, and the clatter as it falls. Then there are footsteps, a long stride, hurried, and the slamming of a door before the hand that's shoved back into the pocket where the mobile rests, cutting the feed as accidentally as it was commenced.

Sherlock takes to the hallways. Who has captured him be damned – he'll work that out as he makes his way out of here. There's no time for this. Too much to do. Too much that he needs to do so that he can go home.]

Comments

[no_eels]

[Toothless is skulking around, trying not to be involved with anything that resembles one of these damn 'events', when a new scent wafts toward him. A new Viking. There were so many, lately. The mansion was getting downright greedy, if you asked him. And this was coming from a dragon who technically had no use for the idea of 'greed'.

As Sherlock appears in his hallway, he pauses, watching him curiously with his big green eyes.]

[could_be_dangerous]

[Sherlock doesn't miss much. He couldn't even if he wanted to, so the dark shape slipping down the hallway hardly escapes his notice.

Many things have begun to weigh in the favour of the honesty of the residents here, very many things, little discrepancies, unsettling details, but this...

The accountant had said: not human. He hadn't specified this.

Sherlock is a practical creature. He is a machine made of theories, a system for crafting understandings, a collection of devices for perception -- but though he weighs these things most heavily, has come to know them as his most real and acceptable aspects, he is still at very least an imitation of a person. There are moments, moments like these, in which he is confronted with something which flies in the face of all that he ever learned, all that he ever knew, and fails to account for it.

For the space of a long few seconds, he is nearly normal: baffled, disbelieving, confounded. But there it is. One takes things as they come. Theories are made to be rewritten.

And so he takes it in, this long, sinuous creature, and takes himself in all the more. He's not been drugged. Not with anything he knows; he's well aware of what hallucinogens feel like. He's not dreaming. He's never dreamed a thing like this.

If this thing is real, if there's nothing for which he's failed to account, it bears study. And so he stands, eyes narrowed, and watches, wary, attentive. Not afraid. The Hound was fear. This is... an understandable anxiety.]

[no_eels]

[That there isn't any immediate yelling or running is promising. In Toothless' opinion, anyway. He takes another long sniff of this Viking's scent, imprinting it to his image, and then begins to approach. Despite his size, which is much more long than wide, the Night Fury moves quickly. It would be good to know something of all the Vikings here, he thinks.]

[could_be_dangerous]

[Sherlock really isn't certain how entirely keen he is on how quickly that thing is moving. He starts, shifting his weight in case he has to run or fight, the change mostly automatic. His arms rise too, not to ward the creature off, not yet, but to keep his hands out of the way. Hands are important. Essential for his work. More importantly, sensitive. The gesture is the same he'd make at the approach of some large dog, a recoiling not out of disgust so much as the desire to spare himself unnecessary, unwanted tactile experiences. There is too much to process here already.]

[no_eels]

[Toothless stops a few feet away, his enormous green eyes a bit wider than they were as he takes in the Viking's attire. Where's his armor? There are so many Vikings here without any armor. Or weapons. Just a bit foolish, if you ask Toothless, especially given what the mansion does to its residents.

He gives a curious rumble, meant to disarm the stiff body language he can say - his intent isn't to hurt.]

[could_be_dangerous]

[Attempting to read non-human creatures is always dangerous. Ascribing human-like thoughts and motivations to them is an obvious fallacy, and none of Sherlock's theories cover an animal of this type. He can't trust what looks like harmless curiosity to actually be so. He can hardly trust that much in humans, which he can read. Relaxation, in that light, is hardly going to be possible, but turning his back is likely to be an equally bad idea, and aggression is right out.

So... so he lowers one hand gingerly, palm outward, and offers it to be sniffed. Feels a bit of a fool for it, too; this thing isn't a cat, however much he might wish it were. Cats he can handle. No: better. Cats are wonderful. A cat would be brilliant right now, but he's doing his best with what he's been given.]

[no_eels]

[The Night Fury visibly brightens, sniffing Sherlock's palm carefully with his big snout. Hm. He has an interesting smell. There are things that Toothless doesn't recognize.

He looks up at Sherlock again with his big eyes and then repeats a rumble, this one higher. It's as close to a hello as a dragon gets. Then he promptly presses his head into Sherlock's hand for pets.]

[could_be_dangerous]

[Sherlock needs must amend his previous decision: a little bit like cats. Or at least good at imitating them, regardless of the actual intent behind this, which he still can't entirely trust. Still: no harm in running his fingertips along those scales, is there? Could be, could very well be, another amendment, but Sherlock does it all the same, attentive, quiet fascination creeping in to join the wariness in his expression.]

[no_eels]

[Toothless watches him right back. Never has he been in a place with so many dark-haired Vikings. This one is exceptionally skittish, but then again, Toothless can't really blame him. Before Hiccup, his reaction with Vikings was to flee or attack first and think later. Now, however, he sits patiently, gauging him.]

[could_be_dangerous]

[Sherlock lets his fingertips wander, clearly more exploratory than interested in petting properly right now. Ridges and scales. Very reptilian. Warm, alive. Pleasant to the touch, but that's largely irrelevant at the moment. He gives a soft, low hum, almost absently.

His palm drops. His fingers curl. Cell patterns, like foam, like neurons; the whole world is scales like these, but in the whole of his world there is no creature like this. He finds himself charmed, in spite of himself, and lets his other hand drop to feel out the dimensions of the creature's skull, gentle, careful, curious.]

[no_eels]

[The Night Fury doesn't mind, not really, though part of him wonders if the Viking knows how to pet at all. But at least there hasn't been any yelling, or running. Or threats. He blinks at Sherlock, then rumbles and - promptly collapses when the man's fingers pass right over that spot under his jaw that turns him into jello.]

[could_be_dangerous]

[Sherlock gives a soft huff of amusement in spite of himself. It could be a ploy to bring him lower, more easily within range. could be, might be, might even probably be, but he can't say he cares much at the moment. There are two possible solutions for his current problem, the final problem, ongoing: he paves the way for his safe return, or he dies. Either way, goal more or less accomplished. So.

So he drops to a knee, because misgivings aside, he knows a request for More Of That when he sees one.]

[no_eels]

[Toothless makes a very noisy, rumbling purr when the motion is repeated, eyes lolling to half-mast. It doesn't matter what Sherlock does, now, as long as he keeps scritching the Night Fury. His wings remain folded above his leather harness, but the flop sort of exposes it.]

[could_be_dangerous]

[A harness. Interesting. Explains a great deal. Doesn't quite assuage Sherlock's wariness, but it helps. Noted, stored away. Not quite as interesting as the patterns in the scales, finer here, rougher there, as what he can see of the creature's musculature, the webbing of the wings. He wonders on bones -- hollow? On the anchoring of the wings -- must be an impressive system of bone, cartilage, tendon and muscle, to keep a creature that size airborne and functional. He wonders on organ systems, heartbeats -- three-chambered, like the reptiles he knows? What does it eat? Is it susceptible to parasitism? What sort? Transmissible diseases? What about its saliva, full of bacterial symbionts like Varanus komodoensis? What else? What more?]

[no_eels]

[The Night Fury is a content, large dragon lump on the ground as Sherlock prods and makes notes. Hiccup would be able to tell Sherlock so much more. Toothless, on the other hand, yawns, exposing pink gums and nothing else - his teeth are currently retracted, as when he received his name.]