songerein | [OPEN] A Late March Catchall

Entry tags:

[OPEN] A Late March Catchall

Who: Herlock Sholmes ... and you?
Which: Open Log
Where: Around Reverein (The Wild Harvest, The Communal Garden)
What: Sholmes enjoys some intellectual pursuits in public
Warnings: Threads may include spoilers for GAA/GAA2 and will be marked accordingly. Feel free to opt out or simply write an OOC note in the tag.

A. The Curious Tale of the Man with the Jars

XXnd of March(?), Throughout the Day
The Wild Harvest

[ If one happens to visit the Wild Harvest today, they will find one of its tables has been completely overtaken by a single guest and his clutter: a stack of books*, a (normal) journal, a handful of measuring tools, and--depending on what time you find him--half-eaten plates of food, a sweaty glass of ice water, a cup of tea, or a neglected pint of beer. His overcoat, deerstalker, and leather bag are discarded on the seat next to him, leaving the detective to comfortably study in his rolled shirtsleeves.

However, all of that aside, one may find a mismatched collection of jars to be of much greater interest. Judging by the stubborn residue from their labels, the containers previously held pickles, jams, and spices, but peering into them now will reveal various specimens, living or otherwise: insects, plants, colorful stones, mysterious fluids, one or two familiar orange hate feathers and a few four-leaf clovers. ]

[[ * OOC: This is a random mix from the bookstore. Feel free to make up titles or recognize a volume from your character’s canon if you’d like another excuse to make small talk! ]]

B. The Adventure of the Fickle Fiddler

XXst of March(?), Late Afternoon, Trending into Evening
The Communal Garden

[ Alternately, if one happens to be enjoying a late-day stroll by the communal garden, they will catch the sound of a violin. A few bars of a tune play, followed by a pause, some muttering, and a bowed revision. It's a bit difficult to make out the song or the violinist's actual skill given the choppy progress, but if, by chance, one hails from some variant of Earth and has a keen ear for classical music, they may recognize phrases of Paganini.

Venturing deeper into the garden, one will find the source of the music: a man standing by the pond with a violin tucked under his chin. After bowing out a bar, he bends to write (or erase) notes on the makeshift sheet music paper laid out across a bench. A chorus of singing fish poke up from the depths of the pond to helpfully parrot his melodies. ]

C. WILDCARD

[ Hit me up via PM or discord if you have other business or scenarios you'd like to address with Sholmes! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ For all his incredible accomplishments as a chemist, Sholmes is still a miserable cook; he has managed to both burn a few slabs of toast and over-steep an entire pot of green tea. Still, he is undeterred. This is nothing a liberal helping of preserves, sugar and milk can’t fix--all of which are haphazardly added to a tray.

This spontaneous hospitality is courtesy of a rare fit of contrition: he hasn’t been the most pleasant house guest. Even beyond his ill-conceived pranks and disruptive energy level, his clutter has already begun to cover once-pristine surfaces like a creeping, intellectual mold.

He makes a circuit of the treehouse layout, wondering if his host has snuck out to run an errand--until he hears stirring from Yujin’s room and finds the door slightly ajar. He raps on it with a single, curled knuckle, and waits for only a split second before letting himself in. Boundaries? Pshaw. Herlock Sholmes knows no such word. ]

Mikotoba, can I interest you in some--

[ The door swings open--not to the expected calm of the doctor’s room--but to a blast of familiar air: damp and cold, thick with soot and the last weak whiffs of the Thames’ Great Stink. Cobbles are hard and uneven under his feet, gas lights golden against the blue evening shadows that have settled over Baker Street.

Glancing around, the place feels more like a sketch, or perhaps a backdrop in a play: some elements are rendered as meticulously sharp focal points (the front stoop of 221B), while others are cursory brushstrokes (Windibank’s cluttered shop windows).

He spins back around, fully expecting to see the interior of the treehouse, but no, now a storefront stands behind him, empty but for his own likeness in the dark glass: younger in ways that are easily perceptible to Sholmes’ observant vanity. His mop of blond hair is trimmed and better tamed, relatively speaking. His eyes have a pugnacious keenness that he scarcely remembers, but can’t help but find a bit insufferable in this youthful reflection.

All that aside, his lower back feels fantastic, and that particular suit was always rather flattering--a bitter shame it had been thoroughly ruined during a case.

Taken in total, this odd change of scenery must be none other than the “dreamwalking” he’s been warned about. But is it his own? Or has he just stepped into his partner’s dreamscape? Maybe this calls for more discretion than simply barging into a room: ]

Knock-knock! Mikotoba! Is this your dream? [ A pause. ] ... Are you decent?

[ While he listens for a response, he looks down. His laden tray has been replaced by a sloppy stack of case files. He squints curiously at their labels, but the black text squirms like marching lines of insects and he drops them with instinctual shock. No sooner do the files and their contents spill across the stones than he hears an unmistakable sound slice through the evening quiet: a baby crying.

His eyes follow the sound to the second story window of 221B: wide open and warmly lit. Sholmes rushes to the door and tries the knob. Locked. Blast. He pats his pockets for his key--missing--then his lockpicks--also gone. Confound it. He yanks on the bell pull before stepping back to the sidewalk.

Dream or not, that wailing--so perfectly designed to tug at deep, primitive instincts--is beginning to fray his nerves. In desperation, he finally cups a hand to his mouth and shouts: ]

Mikotoba? Mikotoba?! Are you in there?

[Normally, Yujin would not be sleeping during the day. Normally, he'd be found at the clinic, or at the greenhouse, or even at the market place to get some food for the rest of the household. Today may be one of those days where the need to keep busy has finally caught up with him. Though he was up and about earlier, he lay himself down after a few hours for a 'quick rest' and was lost to deep slumber most effectively.

Dreams of his time in Great Britain are common. Despite only taking up six years of his life, the impact that exchange project had left on him was tremendous. Though it's associated with some pain and bittersweet sentiment, the overall picture is still one of fondness. 221B will always be his home away from home, and so, his subconsciousness remembers every nook and every cranny. The creaky steps, the single broken hook of the coat hanger by the door, the smell of the fireplace whenever it's lit... What he can't visualize quite so vividly is the clutter in Sholmes's work area, which would change composition so very often that in dreams, it truly is just a blurry mess. There is a desk, there are some books, the rest is an irrelevant haze.

All that truly matters, when it comes down to it, is the infant in his arms. Small, fragile, beautiful... He could watch her all day. She's wailing, but that doesn't mean the dream is a nightmare. Her cries remind him that she's alive and healthy. That's the best thing to focus on, for to remember what happened to her mother would be far too-

The sound of the bell startles him, interrupting the train of thought just in time. A visitor? Someone to see Sholmes for another case, perhaps? He carefully lifts the child up against his shoulder, allowing her weight to rest there so he can wander over to the window and peer towards Baker Street's pavement. Sholmes? Strange, wasn't he just inside? Or had Yujin only imagined that? One hand still holding onto Iris, his other finds the window latch and pulls at it.

A decade ago, Yujin Mikotoba looked strikingly different. There was no moustache yet, and any white hair was so minimal that it blended in perfectly with the pitch black. He was a bit sleeker in the face and in the body, though not by much. And so, that is the person meeting his partner's gaze beyond the open window.]

Sholmes! Have you locked yourself out again?

[ Oh, thank heavens. Dream or no, Iris isn't left unattended. But his friend's youthful appearance ... that is a fresh shock. Sholmes was only just becoming accustomed to the white hair, the mustache, and the lines on Mikotoba's face that made those ten years into something tangible. Now here he is, a perfect reconstruction of his youth. ]

Have I--? [ He sets his hands on his hips and shakes his head. ] Why is the door locked at all? More importantly, is Iris quite alright?

[ While she had no words, her cries and fussing still had distinguishable differences in pitch or texture. Within weeks of caring for her, Sholmes had learned her language easily enough. Now he hears the edge of exhaustion and maybe the throatier crow of hunger. ]

She'll be looking for a bottle before bed. Let me in and I'll see to her.

[Yujin hadn't identified the crying as any particular sort. To his slumbering subconsciousness, it's simply a consistent sound. Something which relates not to the needs of a baby which isn't really there, but rather, it relates to how the cries affects him personally. Now that Sholmes mentions the bottle, though, it starts him into a different sense of awareness. A very strong, overwhelming sentiment is born, which begins as a single pebble rolling down a hill and cascades into an avalanche.

Iris is hungry and he hasn't noticed. He's been wasting time just holding her. He's terrible at this. He wasn't cut out for being a father. This is not his daughter. He shouldn't even be here.

The lights inside 221B flicker, as if a strong breeze is attempting to extinguish every single candle and lantern in the house. There's a sudden smell of incense, and it's associated with death. But then Yujin manages to focus on Sholmes again, who's standing right there and is anxious to help. Right. He has a partner. He doesn't need to do this alone.]

I'll be right there. One moment.

[Yujin retreats from the window, but never actually crosses through the house. His mind simply skips over that part, accepting it as something that was 'done', and the next second he's already standing before the front door to pull it open.]

[ Does Mikotoba know he's dreaming? Sholmes must admit, his own mind is trying to convince itself that this is a perfectly fine reality--maybe Songerein and the decade of life before have been the dream.

But no, just when he's about to relax, he notices something off: the immediacy with which Mikotoba reaches the door, or the way the objects in his periphery swim and change when he's not actively focusing on them. He was certain the stoop-side bed was bare, but on second glance, shoots from hidden bulb flowers have speared up from the dirt. In the space of a blink, they've burst into crocuses, daffodils, lilies, and yes, a few iris blooms unfurl.

And then the door opens with a whiff of incense. After years with Japanese lodgers, it's become a comforting scent; it has a tendency to cling to the corners of a room and--like a more delicate version of his own tobacco smoke--reassert itself when he returns after a few days away. Even years after Yujin's departure, the dormant smell would emerge and give him a moment's pause. ]

My word, that was quick! My dear fellow, you are a vision of youth with all of the vim and vigor to match!

[ Sholmes rests a hand on the baby's back. He'd forgotten how adorable she was at this age--even with a face red enough to match her soft curl of hair. ] Here, Mikotoba, allow me to relieve you of that furious little grubling.

Closed to professorbestie, expect big fat GAA/GAA2 spoilers

Oh, those SPOILERS

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A

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B... for barok! :D

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