[ 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: ]
Closed to professorbestie, expect big fat GAA/GAA2 spoilers
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?