maskormenacelogs | [OPEN] Look at me and tell me who I am

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[OPEN] Look at me and tell me who I am

WHO:Sherlock and YOU!
WHERE:De Chima
WHEN:June 19
WHAT:New powers! Discovering that he turns into people and their feels are loud and stuff
WARNINGS:Probs body horror, please check out this permissions post for using empathy against your character.

It had been an unwelcome surprise.

Sherlock had discovered, quite obviously, that he'd been ported out, upon being quite suddenly ported back in. A moment of panic when he feared he'd been gone for ages, remembering what John had said about people getting ported out, when along with the fear, a sort of warm twinge went through him. It didn't hurt, exactly, but it felt strange. He dismissed it, forgetting about getting new powers--his mind was completely focused on making sure he hadn't accidentally disappeared for two years. He quickly made his way back to town in hopes that John hadn't even noticed his absence.

A quick check of his communicator told him the date and time.

On his way back to his and John's place, he was noticing something odd. A sort of disorienting feeling in his head, and randomly and occasionally feeling angry, sad, jealous, happy. Snippets, nothing other than a small enough amount to acknowledge, but it was there. He wondered if he was ill, but then again, what could be responsible for such emotional instability? Some other ImPort perhaps?

If anyone sees him, he would look like Greg Lestrade. However, his outer garments did not shift with him, so he was still wearing his coat and scarf.

And...his hair would turn from silver to bright red, to blue, multiple times a minute as he was consumed with worry.

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John noticed his absence.

It was a bit of bad timing, really. Things had been decidedly cool between him and Sherlock since their encounter with Sally Cunliffe's shapeshifting murderer. John wanted to continue the investigation while Sherlock hesitated. That, coupled with the suspect taking the form of his wife to attack him, had driven a wedge between them and John had directed his anger at Sherlock rather than their mysterious criminal.

By the afternoon of his disappearance, John was ready to make a peace offering and sent Sherlock a text, informing him that he'd buy the milk and Chinese for later. It was a punch in the gut when the message bounced back a few seconds later. Two further attempts yielded the same result. Since there was no chance Sherlock would block him, there was only one possible explanation for his uncharacteristic silence.

John doesn't go to work the next day. He stays in the flat. As if sensing his state of mind, the cat hops up onto his lap and keeps him company.

What looks like Greg Lestrade and his red-and-blue flashing hair practically crash into the flat later that morning.

He's still wearing his coat and scarf, and pulls them off by the door, it seems the clothes closest to his skin change along with him. He was wearing what Greg usually wore, suit jacket, shirt, no tie, not unlike his own clothes, but Greg's were far more rumpled and of a cheaper brand.

"John?"

It sounds exactly like Greg, too. Sherlock strides towards the living room, holding his coat and scarf before putting them away, looking for all intents and purposes like Greg, holding Sherlock's coat and scarf.

He's calmed down enough that his hair resumes Greg's normal gray.

"You wouldn't believe what happened."

Well, that is enough to break John out of his reverie.

The cat leaps off John's lap and dashes into the kitchen at breakneck speed when Greg Lestrade, sporting a new flashing, technicolour haircut bursts through the front door. The doctor gets to his feet and stares, mystified, at the sudden appearance of Scotland Yard's hapless detective inspector standing in his living room with Sherlock's coat and scarf draped over his arm.

With a thousand questions running through his mind and worry knitting his brow, John realizes his mouth is hanging open and closes it. He doesn't even know to begin although, thankfully, at least his hair colour has returned to normal. Eventually, John manages to forcefully utter one stunned word.

"Greg?"

Greg?

Sherlock scoffs, and tosses his coat and scarf haphazardly on the nearest empty bit of furniture. If John was making some sort of stupid joke, he didn't quite get it. And that was hardly a proper greeting after he'd been ported out. He misinterprets John's stunned body language as mockery rather than genuine.

"I was ported out, obviously, who knows why," he ignores John's odd joke and plops down on the nearest seat with a huff, in Sherlock's normal posture where he sort of ends up draping across everything. Greg was stockier than Sherlock, so it just looked awkward rather than that effortlessly graceful thing he usually managed to pull off.

"I suppose you hardly noticed, then." A petulant tone. He was expecting John to be at least a little bit upset.

John had been upset. Admittedly, it was a strange position for someone like him to be in. He has experienced loss more than the average person has, but Sherlock's frequent disappearances have always hit him particularly hard. It was like grieving for someone who wasn't dead. When Mary died, John felt her presence was everywhere. It wasn't as clean and methodical as someone being ported out here -- there were reminders of her everywhere in their home. Her notes on the fridge, her toothbrush in the bathroom, her perfume on the mouthpiece of the phone.

But every time Sherlock was ported out, there was nothing left behind of his friend to remember. Except for the coat and scarf Greg has thrown onto his armchair. He stares at the familiar apparel, then looks back at the detective inspector lounging on his couch and talking like... well, Sherlock Holmes. John's eyes narrow and his brow contorts as he pieces the evidence together and comes to an impossible conclusion.

"Sherlock? Is that you?"

Sherlock stares back at John for a moment, confused. It's the strangest thing, he can almost feel a sort of...boost in his confusion, coming from John's direction.

"Of course it's me, why would I--"

He finally makes the connection and looks down. These are not his clothes. Nor his hands. He dashes to bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. A slew of creative curses echo.

Especially, if John can see him, he doesn't actually look like Greg anymore. Sherlock watched as he suddenly just...changed into Henry Knight when the jolt of fear hit him.

"What!?"

John follows him to the bathroom and stands in the doorway, looking bewildered as Sherlock transforms into a harried-looking Henry Knight fresh off the moors. Well, this explains his absence in the last twenty-four hours. Although John can't help but notice the irony in Sherlock's newest ability – they've spent the last couple of weeks pursuing a murderer who can change their appearance. It even caused their latest falling out before he was ported out.

"I thought you were..." John can't bring himself to complete that sentence, but the implication and note of vulnerability is palpable. Gone. Not just temporarily, but permanently. While he was being a dick and being angry at him again. He takes a moment to compose himself and then looks back up at Sherlock.

"How is this happening?"

Gone.

John's pause isn't lost on Sherlock, and that pang of guilt hits him again.

"I am sorry, John."

Even though he had nothing to do with getting ported out, he still felt sorry for John. These feelings are strangely amplified, Sherlock wonders if it's not something to do with his own powets. The remorse and guilt reminded him of...unfortunately, Redbeard, and the phantom dog that never actually existed was enough of a presence in his mind that he sprouted a red Irish Setter tail. He was too busy looking at himself in the mirror in fascination and horror to really feel it, as it wagged slightly over the top of his trousers.

"I don't know. New powers, like last time? I don't have any new memories, so it wasn't exactly like last time. Odd." He purses his lips, which looks out of place on Henry's face. "It's not like hers, though. I don't think. I can't seem to control it. I'm willing myself back to me...or what I look like, and nothing is happening."

John nods mutely, casting his eyes down in embarrassment. He's always felt uncomfortable expressing himself, but he appreciates Sherlock's apology. This might have been John's opportunity to apologize as well. If their roles had been reversed, he might have acted in the same vein as Sherlock and backed away from their investigation. Sadly, this idea goes out the window when a tail suddenly sprouts out of Sherlock's backside and waggles at him while Sherlock gazes into the mirror at his new reflection.

"So, I haven't missed anything. Good. It must've have been a porter glitch... it happens, sometimes." He says slowly, staring quizzically at his tail. When it doesn't go away and Sherlock doesn't react to it, he gestures to his newest appendage with a wave of his finger. "You've, uh, got a tail now."

John's embarrassment fortunately doesn't cause another shift, as Sherlock's guilt is strong, and he has difficulty picking up on it over his own feelings. He had to do what he did...didn't stop him from feeling guilt about it. And anger. Over her.

"...what?"

The detective blinks at John, the thought of it is so mind-bogglingly absurd that--

--no, John was right. He did have a tail. Sherlock stared at the fluffy red thing that seemed to be wagging slightly of its own accord. And it was attached to him.

"...fascinating," was all he could muster at the moment, blinking rapidly. He could feel it, too, the movement and the sensation of air against the fur.

"Porter glich, and you just get new powers? Power exchange? No refunds on the old stuff?" Sherlock turned on the tap water to see if he could still control water. After a moment of concentration and squinting, he sighed. Nothing happened. "Apparently not." But there was relief in his voice. To not have to spend a night underwater every week...if he was truly free from all of that...he'd deal with whatever nonsense was plaguing him now. He shut off the tap with a satisfying, dramatic twist of his fingers.

The sheer relief is enough calm to cause him to rapidly shift back into himself. He's wearing the clothes he'd been in before he ported out, what he usually wore--suit jacket, white button-up shirt, slacks. The guilt was still present enough in the form of the red dog tail, and the anger leftover from their shapeshifing foe manifested itself in two small, black horns that stuck out from his black curls.

Edited 2017-07-01 14:02 (UTC)

John lifts his eyebrows questioningly at Sherlock's choice of words, his lips twitching into a lopsided smile. Fascinating? He remembers jokingly referring to him as Spock a few times in the early days of their friendship, but that isn't an exclamation John would use for this situation. Mad, unbelievable, just the tiniest little bit disconcerting; those are just a choice few words he can think off the top of his head if he found himself saddled with the tail of an excitable Irish setter.

"Mm, sort of. It's only ever happened to me once. Karen got caught a couple of times, but she never got any new powers... not that I knew of, anyway." He says, watching Sherlock attempt to manipulate the running water in the sink basin. His shoulders sag in relief when nothing happens, the knot of fear in his stomach loosening with the realisation that the late nights of him stumbling into the bathroom and finding Sherlock submerged are now firmly behind them.

"Sometimes you get new powers, sometimes you're just gone for twenty-four hours. I lost the ability to refill my tea when we came back from Lo—Jesus Christ!"

John exclaims loudly when he notices the horns protruding from Sherlock's head.

Whatever Sherlock is was going to respond to John about port-outs and powers completely disappears. John's emotion hits him though, and suddenly two, white-but-slightly-glowing-green rabbit ears sprout from the top of his head. They're large, and flop over his dark curls and onto his face.

There's a moment of plain shock over that, too, where Sherlock can't speak--his mouth drops open, he tries to brush them out of his face--they're real, not in any way an illusion, warm and feeling exactly like large rabbit ears would. A slew of curses runs through his mind, but so he can manage is a bewhildered, stammering series of consonants and mumbles.

Finally he manages to utter out, "I think...I think it's reacting to your emotions, John." It's the only explanation. The horns did not create that jolt of emotion in him, but he felt one anyway. Was he really feeling what John was feeling!?

Maybe John is overreacting to Sherlock's new powers. Just a tiny bit. Although most people would be shocked if their best friend suddenly grew devil horns in the middle of a conversation. Once the initial shock wears off, John looks over his new floppy rabbit ears with a surprised choke of laughter. He's almost tempted to take a picture for Rosie until he remembers neither of them will recall this when they return to London. What a shame.

"You think I'm doing this to you?" He asks sceptically, crossing his arms over his chest. It does make sense though, he thinks while he chews on his bottom lip. Sherlock has been transforming at an alarming rate ever since he walked back into their flat. Rabbits are known to be skittish and Henry Knight used to be wound up tighter than a coil spring before Sherlock solved his case. He inhales a deep, calming breath and tries to clear his mind.

"... Okay. Right then. I've calmed down now, so that should turn you back to normal." John says slowly, hoping his new state of tranquility will trigger a change in Sherlock and return him to normal.

Sherlock's too worried about his own predicament to really notice John choking back laughter. He tugs at an ear, in dismay, and fascination. It wasn't as bad as the water thing, but rabbit ears, really? No one would take him seriously.

"I-I believe so," Sherlock turns his attention back on John. He frowns, trying to place the foreign feelings swirling within his own. It was strange, almost like if Sherlock was a plain glass of milk, John's emotions would be a streak of blue and green paint swirling within it. Best metaphor he could muster for the unusual circumstance he had just found himself in. "Though you weren't around when I became Lestrade, so perhaps it is a mix of both my own emotions and that of yours. I wonder if other people affect me as well..."

The experiments to be had...

Sherlock nods as, to his wonder and curiosity, he can actually sense John's emotions calm down. It was the oddest thing. It was literally having a new sense, much like hearing or seeing. Almost impossible to describe to someone who had never experienced it before.

Just as predicted, Sherlock responded to John's calm. The horns, ears, and tail melded slowly back into him, like a reverse-time lapse of their appearance.

"It's working," a sigh of relief.

"Yeah, you look normal again." John confirms, mirroring his relief with a small smile. "Well, the head could be a bit smaller, but I've been saying that for ages."

Ha. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he's suddenly struck with the idea that maybe he can change the size of his head, but alas, he doesn't know the emotion that would cause such a thing. Maybe if he achieved some kind of goal or did some ego-boosting activity. Sherlock's thoughtful look was probably more alarming than if he'd been actually insulted.

His intense curiosity manifests as a flicker of blue metal that ripples across his skin, then disappears again in an instant as he dismissed the thought, and his visage returned to fully normal once more.

"This could either be very useful, or very inconvenient," he murmurs, steeping his fingers together under his chin.

"I'm going to go out on a limb and say it's going to be massively inconvenient." John chimes in, lifting his brow when his cheekbones take on a brief metallic sheen. "Well, until you figure out how to control it anyway."

John has his fingers crossed. He can only imagine the amount of hassle Sherlock's newest ability would cause if he was still a social worker. Some of the children might like the floppy, luminescent rabbit ears, but the parents would take umbrage at a social worker sprouting literal devil horns when discussing their children. It wouldn't have painted a good picture of his colleagues either.

Clearing his throat, he unfolds his arms and points to the kitchen.

"Do you want a cuppa?"

"It seems I may have to seek out some...assistance," he says the word with distaste, like it was sour. Sherlock Holmes, asking for help? Perish the thought. But it was either that, or suffer. Again. And he actually had a very good time with Will when they went swimming, so it wasn't like he'd had particularly bad experiences. His ego just got in the way at the thought of himself needing to be taught anything.

"...sure," Sherlock gives a shrug, doing his best to keep his thoughts and emotions indifferent. He's had years of practice trying to quell emotion, so it wasn't like it was hard, but...his newfound emotional intelligence had been hard-won. This kind of thing only enforced that nasty little voice in his head that insisted that sentiment was useless, that caring wasn't an advantage.

"If Mary was still here, she could give you some tips." John recalls in a wistful, longing tone of voice on his way to the kitchen. It's worth mentioning how her super powered skill-set had caused some friction between the couple for a while. She chose the name Mary Watson but, sometimes, Rosamund stirred up trouble in the imPort community. Luckily, her only victim seemed to be Frederick Chilton and, after the comments the doctor made recently, John isn't angry about it anymore.

"I'd say ask the network, but..." He calls out, but presses his together before he can finish making that suggestion. It probably wouldn't be a very good idea, considering who they were pursuing before Sherlock was ported out. "Maybe you can go back to the military base and see if they have a file about your new powers."

Edited 2017-07-09 16:18 (UTC)

Obtaining the file is actually a really good idea, but Sherlock's sidetracked by one thing. He picks up on John's wistful, longing tone far more than his actual emotion, but it sets him off anyway. "Mary's abilities?" Sherlock does his best to keep his voice neutral, but the guilt in his eyes flashes up once again.

Which, somehow, completely transforms him into a small child. Himself, actually, about six-years old, in a yellow jumper and a pirate hat.

Sherlock's a bit shocked, and just stands there.

Busying himself in the kitchen, John doesn't notice the change in his friend and continues talking about Mary's abilities.

"Yeah, she could turn into whatever she touched. Will, other imPorts, dogs, cats... she even transformed into a dragon once." John calls back, filling the kettle with water and turning it on. "God knows where she ran into one, but yeah. It, uh, ruined the flowerbed in our garden one time."

"A dragon?" Sherlock squeaked, sounding exactly like his six-year-old self.

Which coincidentally, did love dragons and all sorts of wild adventure stories.

Of course, he was horribly embarrassed by the sound of his voice, even while he was wondering where on earth an actual dragon could be for Mary to be able to turn into one.

It was too bad though, if she had been here, at least John could say a proper goodbye, or enjoy the time he had with her while he could...

Edited 2017-07-15 15:47 (UTC)

He's visiting De Chima for business, despite the hassle it could be. But he'd gotten used to said hassles, and even with his own few Port-outs, he'd gotten used to them easily enough. At least it was done for the day and he was getting ready to head back to Heropa, take the rest of the day to himself-

-except for that whole. Color shifting not far down the street. It may have been rude to stare, but he couldn't help it, blinking in surprise as he took a moment and just observed. Especially considering how disorientated the man looked.

Sherlock notices everything--

--most everything, as clearly he didn't realize what had happened to him. He saw the man staring and it was enough for him to take notice.

The detective was suspicious, so he hangs around the street corner and buys a packet of cigarettes at a newspaper stand, waiting to see if the man will do much else.

His hair is still flashing occasionally between red and blue.

He doesn't have to wait too overly long. The stand is on Callaghan's route, anyway, and while he could go out of his way to avoid what may not be any of his business?

He doesn't go out of his way to pass by it, but regardless, he offers an, "Ah, excuse me-" while reaching up to touch his hair. Not unlike how someone would gesture at their own mouth if someone, say, had errant food on it.

Sherlock's automatically suspicious, when the man comes closer. He frowns and shifts his weight, half expecting a fight or a need to run--he's led an exciting life, after all--but instead the man says 'excuse me' and touches his own hair.

"What?" Sherlock's tone is brusque and snappish. He's a genius, yes, but he's also mind-bogglingly thick sometimes. He doesn't bother to touch his own hair to see what was the matter. He attempts to deduce what he could from this other man's appearance. See if there is something to be worried about.

"What's your problem?"

At this point, his worry had faded enough that the red-and-blue flashing had stopped, and it remained the salt-and-pepper gray of Greg Lestrade, the person he currently looked like. Of course, he still had no idea that he looked like Greg at all.

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[OPEN] Look at me and tell me who I am

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