maskormenacelogs | The Next Problem [OPEN]

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The Next Problem [OPEN]

WHO: Sherlock Holmes and YOU
WHERE: De Chima and surrounding area
WHEN: Latter half of January
WHAT: Dealing with new watery powers and the fallout of What Happened During The Port-Out
WARNINGS: Drugs and psychological torture mentioned at least. Spoilers for S4.

Everything was good.

Actually good.

Despite the tragedy that had happened, he was alive and well, so was John, Rosie, Mycroft and Molly...as much as he feared, he did not lose her. His heart still ached for Mary, but time was healing the hole that she left behind. Not to be filled, of course, but...mended, in its own way.

And Eurus...

He still visited his sister on the regular, playing the magnificent Strad she'd given him as a gift. Despite everything she'd done, he pitied her. He wished he could saved her. Music had reached her where words could not. If it were not for so many things, perhaps what she had become would have never happened...but if he could do something now for her, despite all that she'd taken, he would.

Sentiment.

It wasn't the losing side anymore.

And then, right as he was running through Rathbone place with John--

--he was back. Ported right back like nothing had changed. Right during the blackout, too. It seemed so long ago.

No. No, not now! Not again, blast it! Not when things were finally going right. He had been away from Baker Street for two years dismantling Moriarty's network, and after he'd shot Magnussen he thought he was going towards certain death. And then after Mary died, and he thought he'd lost John forever...he'd scarcely hoped that things would ever be all right again. And now that they were, for a little while--ripped away again, sent to this place...

One small mercy, was that he had no memory of this world when he went back home. So there was still hope...that no matter how much time had passed here, he would return, somehow. Maybe randomly, but...he could only hope that he and John did not get separated again. He could read the abandonment on his face when he'd first arrived...that must have gotten old. And what he knew of John Watson, he would soldier on, but carry the weight of every time he'd left.

There was something different this time. He could tell the moment everything became clear. Because everything was incredibly clear. Something...odd, about the way shadows weren't dark. Sounds were crisper. Smells were...stronger.

Then they briefed him on his powers, and he threw the file right back in their faces. Fortunately he didn't get into too much trouble, but he refused to believe them.

Not this.

Anything but this.

***********
A. Deep waters

There was, of course, the problem of necessity.

Try as he might to ignore it, there was the very real problem that he was feeling sicker and sicker.

It had been days since he'd been ported back, and he had been pointedly avoiding the one thing that had been burning in his mind for these days on end.

He didn't have a choice, he'd have to quite literally dive in sooner or later. But he'd rather put it off for as long as possible. He'd been having nightmares. Of drowning, of being trapped in a well with the bones of Victor and John. Skulls looking accusingly at him for failing. For being stupid. Dreams of waterfalls and fighting Moriarty, going over the edge. Dreams of Mary's lifeless body in a cold aquarium, the light of the water and the shadow of sharks dancing over her.

One morning, he woke up, stumbled into the kitchen. His dark blue housecoat hung over his thin frame, sliding off of one shoulder. He looked like he'd been on some kind of drug-fuled bender, despite not having done so. Dark circles under his eyes, pale, trembling hands. He couldn't seem to walk straight.

He made the mistake of grabbing a glass and going to the sink to get a cup of water. Before he knew it, he was desperately downing glass after glass, a sudden, insatiable thirst hitting him like he was trapped in the driest desert. Quite some time passed, and it still wasn't enough. He stayed there over the sink, panting slightly, the glass cup dropped on the counter, spilling water. He traced it with his shaking fingers, it was calling to him. He was desperate. Desperate enough to race to the nearest dingy back alley and find someone selling something to dull this pain. Relieve him of the pain of these memories. Maybe it would somehow help put off what was necessary for a little while longer. John wouldn't mind, if he didn't know, right?

He was very desperate.

And afraid.

B. It's the landing.

In a nearby park, by a large fountain, there was a man in a dark gray trenchcoat and blue scarf, a deerstalker hat stuffed in his pocket.

Fountains were great, plenty of opportunity to practice and get a handle on this thing. It seemed a shame, though, that he couldn't just conjure water out of thin air. Oh, he'd tried, maybe it was just too cold, or maybe it was just beyond his purview. In any case, the fountain was on and that should be enough.

Or at least, it was enough to splash every single person within twenty-foot range in front of the hapless detective.

"Whoops. Meant to pull, not push."

C. Wildcard. Anything goes!
(If you'd like to do something else, I'm totally game! Feel free to make your own prompt.)

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[ As a strict rule, Cordelia doesn't mind water in the least. Growing up on a hot desert-like planet, she adored the beaches in Heropa and the lakes and ponds by the Residence just outside De Chima. But there can be too much of a good thing, especially when it's splashed all over one's clothes. And especially when it was still January winter weather outside.

She makes a shocked gasp when it hits her, going still in surprise. Interestingly, the surprise doesn't shift into anger when she spots the person who likely caused the splash so it seems like she has an even-enough temper (or more that she's used to similar crazy antics from her family). As it is, she merely looks down at the state of herself before trying to shake the excess water off from her sleeves. ]

I think your aim might be a bit off.

[Sherlock was trying not to laugh. He was trying very hard to keep it in but he was turning slightly red with the exertion of it.]

My apologies.

[He pretended to cough to stifle a snort. Much better.

Though it was cold and he did feel sorry for her, plus it was his fault. He wondered it it was possible to draw the water out of her clothes? He felt he was a bit too clumsy to be able to truly dry it completely, but he might be able to get the bulk of it.]

May I...? I might be able to get some of that.

[ She gives him a slight Look, though at least it's still not angry. ]

Think it'll go better than your first attempt?

I'll do my best.

[There's a smirk. He raises a hand, and tries to draw the water out of the fabric. Most of it would come out in threads of water, floating in midair.]

[ Her eyes widen in obvious delight. She expected she might have control over water like that given what happened, but to see it in action was something else. ]

So far so good there. Think you can do tricks with it too?

Suppose. Theoretically I should be able to.

[Sherlock, if anything, was a show-off. He read the delight in her eyes.

He moves his hands in such a way that makes it look like he's rolling a ball, and the water hovering in midair begins to swirl together in a ball. It's messy and some drips to the ground, but it's there.]

[ She grins at the display of power. ]

Well now that I know you can do that, I might just have to be offended I got splashed in the first place.

Edited 2017-01-27 17:17 (UTC)

[A smirk back at that.]

To be fair, I didn't know I could do this either. It's all new to me.

Just arrived then?

Just came back from being ported out. It gave me different powers.

[ Her eyes widen minutely while her smile turns just a touch more serious. Clearly a subject that interests her. ]

Really? Can I ask if you remembered anything from this place when you went back? I've heard various versions and theories about it ...

Unfortunately no. I didn't remember a thing about this place.

Damn, that's too bad.

[ Her expression falls in disappointment from the answer; clearly, she had something she wanted to remember when she goes back home. She never could hide her emotions from showing in her eyes.

But she takes a deep breath, letting it puff out as her expression smooths back out. And she pulls her clothes more tightly around herself, a small quirk lifting up the corner of her mouth again. ]

Well even with your new fancy powers, I'm still damp in cold weather. Buy me some hot coffee to make it up to me?

It's the day after the power comes back and John is sitting in the living room. His computer is on his lap and cat rubbing against his legs, desperately seeking his attention, which is instead fixed on the blank screen in front of him. His fingers hover over the keyboard while he chews thoughtfully on his lower lip, trying to materialise words out of thin air. How to inform people he has come back from easily one of the worst years of his life.

John hadn't been given much time to process what had happened. One moment he had been sprinting through Rathbone Place alongside Sherlock like they seven years younger, the next minute he had a wad of tissues pressed against his nose. For someone so smart, Sherlock Holmes had a surprisingly thick head. But he had reacted badly to his new powers, then John Constantine had come to Sherlock with a case and they were off again, saving the man from a criminal with a grudge.

Now he had time, his fingers retract and flex over the keys, but he can't commit his thoughts to text. He can imagine the questions and he isn't ready to answer them yet. Not ready to relive it again. Mary was no longer the loyal companion she had been following her death, but he was still trying to be the man she thought he was. Sometimes though, John thought he could hear the brief snatch of her laughter or smell her perfume in the air. Other times he could see her staring back at him through the eyes of their daughter. How long would it be before he would see Rosie again?

Look after Rosie.

He closes his laptop very suddenly and links his hands together. No one would have noticed his absence, he rationalises to himself. Not over such a short period, especially with the blackout and escaped convicts to worry about. It would be fine.

Sherlock draws his trembling hand into a fist, and the water follows. It moves as a sheet, then one by one, droplets were plucked off like the reverse of someone spilling it, and upwards into an arc. He drinks it right out of midair, still not satiated.

He leans against the sink, aware of John (the person, not the cat) pointedly not typing.

After all they'd been through, he figured it was best not to disappoint him again.

Nor did he want to get punched clean out for getting high.

He was at an impasse.

Maybe...maybe if he tried something small. Like the bath. Showers hadn't cut it. Maybe if he hung out there for a little while, it would help.

"I'm having a bath," he announced to John, and the cat. He looked at him, his voice coming out in a slightly more vulnerable tone. Ever since he'd come back from Sherrinford and Musgrave Hall, Sherlock had been...more open. He was still the same old Sherlock, but...better, in a way.

"Would you, er, mind spotting me? I'm not sure what's going to happen."

John blinks out of his reverie and looks up at Sherlock. He'd been half-listening to his friend while he tested out of his new powers in the kitchen, catching extravagant arcs and swirls of water in his peripheral vision. He almost found the sound it made relaxing too. Well, he always did think water was tranquil, up until it started filling up rapidly around his neck in a well with child bones floating beside him. The memory sends an involuntary shiver down his spine.

"Yeah, of course. Sure." He clears his throat and drops his hands, moving his laptop away. Without context, John would've raised his brow and quipped something sarcastic, asking him if he wanted to run it for him. It was different now. Sherlock was standing on the edge of a deep, dark hole and John was not going to let him fall again.

"Can you just, uh, keep your clothes on?"

Edited 2017-01-25 16:07 (UTC)

"Yes, of course...thank you."

A grateful look.

A detached part of him wonders, amusedly, if this had been said in public, the papers would run with it. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes bathing habits, more on page 3!

Sherlock moves towards the bathroom, taking off his housecoat and tossing it towards his bedroom--get that later--and began drawing a bath. He sat on the edge of the tub, as it filled with water, staring at it.

"No problem."

John smiles at him. The media here is partly the reason why he made the request for him to remain clothed. Aside from rightly accusing Culverton Smith of being a murderer, the media obsession with Sherlock Holmes in London wasn't as manic as it used to be, back when his tabloid name was confirmed bachelor. He just doesn't want to risk bachelor turning into voyeur if anyone does stumble in on them.

He follows Sherlock into the bathroom, pausing only to crouch down and pick up the cat glued to his legs. Of course, the cat may rethink its position in his arms as John perches on the edge of the bathtub. For now, he eyes the water with a sceptical gaze while John scratches his head.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock jerks his head up, torn out of his reverie.

"Hmm? I'm fine."

Translation: he was not fine. Sherlock managed a wan smile to try to put John at ease.

Inwardly, however, he was terrified.

Maybe it was because he could feel water now, like a sixth sense, from being able to control it with just a thought. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, in fact it was physically comforting, but he couldn't not be aware of it, and the rather negative memories kept surfacing.

John had nearly drowned, Victor did drown. He himself had nearly drowned in the fight from Ajay. Mary had died in the aquarium, a place that looked like it was underwater. The waterfalls in his mind.

This was so stupid. Why did emotion have to be such a problem?

John figures as much, pressing his lips together and humming noncommittal note. If their roles were reversed and he was given these powers, John wouldn't even consider doing this. Not even for a moment. He wouldn't care if was detrimental to his health; there was no way he was going to let himself get submerged again.

He can almost see Mary standing in the doorway, pulling her hair out in frustration and encouraging him to talk to Sherlock. He doesn't look to her though -- she never stays for very long these days. Not after he confessed to her and vowed to become a better man. It's enough to imagine her standing there for John to muster up the courage to speak again.

"It's okay if you're not, you know?" He ventures clumsily, but in earnest. Despite his problems with Harry, she had never drowned any of his best friends while they were growing up. She had probably wanted to at one point, but what normal sibling hasn't thought that about their friend's best mate?

"It is what it is and it's a sick joke, cruel joke."

Sherlock looks up, his brows furrowed. It was a kindness, that John said that. It gave him permission to be more, well, open.

Vulnerable.

There were very few people that Sherlock had allowed to see this side of himself. Mycroft, for one. When he said John was family, he meant it.

"I am...afraid."

Look at me, John. Afraid.

It was what he said to him, all that time ago, in the midst of staving off a panic attack. That time, it had gone quite poorly. He wanted to do better. Be better.

He dipped a hand in the water, not even using his powers but just swirling the water with his hand aimlessly.

"It is what it is..." he says after John's comment about it being a cruel joke.

Hearing the confirmation that Sherlock's afraid doesn't come as a shock to John. In becoming more humanised, it has made Sherlock Holmes into a better man, but it's also made him susceptible to the very same condition that draws their clients to Baker Street in the first place: people who are lost, afraid, and desperate, with nowhere else left to turn to. Sherlock has been sitting on decades of internalised trauma, protecting himself behind a cold, impassive mask of logic and divorcing himself from feelings. It put a strain on their friendship more than just a few times.

"It's okay to be afraid, you know?" John reassures him in a quiet voice. He was a soldier who did several tours in Afghanistan. He loved it and there are quiet, boring days where misses it, but it would be absurd to say he wasn't afraid at some point. This would be the moment in the movies where he would say something inspirational and uplifting to make this all okay for his best friend. Sadly, he's never been very good at making impassioned speeches on the spot. It's different from pleading for a miracle to a headstone or addressing the apparition of his dead wife conjured up from his grief. It doesn't mean he isn't going to try though.

"I know this is awful and difficult and... God, it's enraging, really." There's a bark of humourless laughter from the doctor. The porter isn't the first machine to draw his ire. It is, however, the only one he has wanted to beat with his fists until one of them breaks. Probably him.

"But what I'm trying to say is.. I'm here for you. For as long as you need me, whenever you need me. I'll be there. So... yeah"

Sherlock looks up at him, his brows furrowed. It wasn't a pained look, but one of...relief? Thankfulness. Gratitude. Hope.

It's okay to be afraid.

I'm here for you.

When Mary died and he went over to see if there was anything he could do, when Molly said John would rather have anyone but him, his heart had broken clean in two. It was no less than someone shooting him in the heart. At least that was fixable. He didn't know how to fix a broken friendship. John was the person dearest to him, a person he had gone on a mission that meant his certain death for, and now he had ruined it all. It didn't take much for him to spiral into a hole of self-destruction even with Mary's prodding in a desperate attempt to fix things. And yet still some part of him worried he'd never make amends. That things would always be torn in two.

And then some time later this happened and Sherlock was reassured that yes, everything was okay again.

At one point he never thought he'd get back to this.

"...thank you, John."

It was the voice of a man who never thought he would ever be anyone's best friend.

A sigh, and a roll of his shoulders as he sat up straighter.

"Well," he said in a brighter voice. "Suppose we should crack on, shall we?" He moved to get into the tub, turning off the water first to make sure it wouldn't overflow. He sat down in it, facing John, looking apprehensive, but ready.

Edited (Words are hard) 2017-01-31 23:07 (UTC)

It wasn't John's proudest moment; pushing away the man who had saved his life countless times. But an entire lifetime with the woman he loved had been ripped away from him. Worst yet, he had wasted time he could have spent with Mary, taken her for granted, falling victim to the upheaval from Rosie's arrival and looked to someone else for his needs. Sure, it turned out she was Sherlock's mad, secret sister who can talk people round but even so, it an emotional affair he had with her. At the end of the day, the marriage between a former soldier and former assassin had suffered from normal, domestic problems. How funny. It was easier to lash out and blame someone else instead of acknowledging the harsh reality.

"Right then."

Once Sherlock is seated in the bath, he leans over and puts John on the floor. The cat instantly whines for his attention again but the doctor ignores him, looking at his best friend. He nods, poised and ready to intervene if this experiment goes wrong and Sherlock gets into difficulties in the water. Not that much can go wrong in a bathtub, but he's prepared nonetheless.

Sherlock nods at John, his heart hammering wildly in his chest, before holding his breath and sinking under.. Yes, he was still holding his breath, he had no idea what to expect, really, and he didn't think he could overpower the instinct to not-drown, powers or no powers.

Panic shot through him as he tried to steady himself. Victor. John. No, he was safe. There was no danger here. Come on, Sherlock, you've got to overpower your emotions! It was no use fighting them, he shook his head and tried to just let it all be. It was what it was, and he had a job to do right now.

Already he was feeling better, despite the fear. It was difficult to explain...it almost felt like he'd downed some sort of energy drink. He just felt good. And no longer desperately thirsty.

He was gripping the sides of the tub with a death grip.

Come on, just...try to breathe. No, said the emotional part of his brain. You're mad.

Two minutes have passed and still he'd not gathered up the courage to just try to breathe. His lungs were burning--his neck was burning for some reason, and he wasn't going to be able to hold it for much long--

Gasp--involuntarily he lost his hold and he choked down a lungful of water. He coughed and tried to surface, but that was worse--the air burned just as badly as the water did, and felt wrong. He coughed and flailed, not realizing that on his neck, he had, well, what could only be described as gills. Seven lines were there, traveling up to right under his jawline. Once he'd hit air, they began to disappear again leaving only a faint trace, like a scar. No one would ever notice them unless they knew what to look for.

"AUGHHhhhh--" he sat there a moment, coughing and trying to breathe. Air was starting to feel better again, his lungs had ceased burning.

John finds himself holding his own breath when Sherlock submerges. He really doesn't like this. Not one bit. He swallows nervously, leaning forward and tapping his fingers against the tub in a frenzied rhythm. He doesn't hear that or the cat whining next to his feet, wanting to be held again. He can't hear anything but the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"God, this is ridiculous... get a grip, Watson!" he criticizes himself in a harsh whisper, rocking back and forth. He was a soldier in Afghanistan for three years; a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand and Bart's hospital. He should be able to handle this. He lurches forward when Sherlock starts flailing, water lapping over the side and soaking the cat, grabbing his lapels to haul him out of the bath.

As the cat flies from the room yowling angrily, John stares wide-eyed at the gills rippling underneath Sherlock's jawline before they fade away. He doesn't know what to say. He can only stare at where he briefly saw them, mouth agape, clutching the front of Sherlock's jacket like it's a lifeline.

That was...difficult. Maybe he was going about this all wrong. Definitely something had happened, but he wasn't sure what.

Sherlock spent another long moment trying to stop coughing, realizing he was coughing in john's face. John, who had hauled him up, and was currently staring at him with his mouth open.

His dark curls were plastered against his forehead, and he ignored the water dripping down his face. Oddly enough it didn't sting or bother his eyes.

Assuming John's reaction was because of what looked like drowning, Sherlock immediately felt bad.

"I'm sorry, maybe--that probably wasn't helping..." he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, frowning.

"John?"

"I thought you were dr—" John feels his throat constrict around the last word. Drowning. It's silly, really. He read Sherlock's file when they came back but, in that instant, he honestly believed he was in trouble. Maybe he was finally becoming the man Mary was talking referring to in her video.

"Sorry." He mutters, letting go of Sherlock's jacket and pulling away. He wipes the water away from his face and perches back down on edge of the bath tub, looking at his friend. "It looked like you had gills, but they're gone now."

Edited 2017-02-02 16:25 (UTC)

"I'm sorry," he said again, the words tumbled out of his mouth, between the coughs, which were fading. Maybe John shouldn't have been here, maybe he was being selfish.

Sherlock managed to steady himself after John let go, pressing a hand against the wall when--

"What!?"

Gills!?

He quickly felt along his neck, but there was nothing initially different, except a stronger ticklish sensation as he ran his fingers across. His neck felt far more sensitive. If there were in fact...gills...it would make sense. Nerve endings. He sneezed.

"Maybe..." he trailed off. "I need to do it again. Let me know if you see anything." This time, he was going to stay underwater, he wasn't going to flail like a confused child in the surf. His determination was outweighing his fear.

Without another word, he sat back down and ducked back under.

John doesn't acknowledge his apology. He turns his attention to an unopened bottle of shaving foam next to the sink, lips pressed into a tense, thin line. He feels completely ridiculous for reacting the way he did. At least the lump in his throat has lessened since Sherlock's stopped thrashing around in the water and he realised he wasn't, in fact, drowning at all. Swimming pools, aquariums, wells, and now bathtubs. Just another setting to add to his accumulation of water based trauma.

"Sherlock--"

The detective gives him just enough time to look back -- but not enough to make an objection -- before he goes back underwater again. John heaves a sigh and stands up, walking carefully across the wet floor to retrieve a towel from the radiator. As he does his best to dry himself off, he leans over the tub and watches Sherlock as he breathes underwater.

Aside from the oxygen bubbles rising up to the surface, John can't see much from his current angle. He squints and looks closer, eyes widening when he sees the flesh at Sherlock's neck rippling back and forth. Blinking, he wordlessly gestures to his own neck.

Sherlock slowly realizes he can hear John fairly clearly. Was it always this clear, or was his hearing enhanced underwater? It wouldn't surprise him. Eventually he would need to try this out elsewhere, which he was...not looking forward to. Still. Just breathe, Holmes. Stop being a child and just do it.

He forced himself to inhale, it was strangely easier this time than the last. He didn't choke as much, coughed a little, but after a moment he just...well, breathed. His brain was struggling to catch up with the fact that he was not, in fact, drowning.

Quite pleased he was not dying, he could see John past the surface. He was pointing to his own neck--oh. Sherlock reached out and touched his neck, his eyes wide. Oh yes, that was definitely not there before. Really, just like a fish. It was both somewhat horrifying and brilliant. He had so many questions. Was it pressure-triggered? Water-triggered?

Sherlock counted down mentally in his head. He was past five minutes now, underwater. Time limit didn't seem to matter, and from what he could tell, especially the way he felt right now, was that his body preferred being underwater. At least until he 'recharged', for lack of a better term.

Five minutes. Sherlock resurfaced again, but instead of the panicky flailing, he was far more graceful about it this time, just keeping his chin barely above water, so he could still 'breathe'.

"Well. There's our answer, I suppose."

It may or may not take Sherlock a half second to recognize Wanda from the one time they spoke before; she's got a much brighter look to her hair this time, her natural dark brown not visible.

However, when the water splashed up and out as she was walking past, she reacted quickly by trying to shield herself with some of her red energy, as it makes a translucent shield in front of her. It just wasn't fast enough, as she still got hit by enough water to get her at least half-drenched.

She offered a quick smile. "It happens." And then lowered the shield of energy, as the red wisps dissipated. She has, after all, made worse mistakes with her own powers -- it would hardly be fair for her to hold a grudge over some water splashed. Those same red wisps appeared around her hands again and then she directed them to the water on the ground, pulling some of it up slowly until it was in in a circular shape. The red wisps still circled around the water, too, as she levitated it there in the air near her. "Want to try again? If so, try to pull this ball of water to you."

"My apologies," he said, trying to hide a snort. It was Wanda, he'd recognized her from before, even with her new bright hairdo. It fit her, he thought.

He watched her manipulate the red wisps, noting her shield that she created, and his eyes falling on the ball of water levitating in the air.

"Well, here goes nothing." A nod, as he tried to mentally grasp the water with his abilities, trying to yank it back clumsily towards himself.

Edited 2017-01-25 14:59 (UTC)

"Don't worry about it - I've had worse happen, or done worse."

Her eyes went from him to it a couple of times as she also paid attention to how he used his powers and technique. She offered only a little bit of resistance with the water -- enough that it would probably take a little bit of an extra tug to make it move, but nowhere near hard mode, just something above easy mode. "Try to manipulate it more if you get over to you, too?"

"Right."

He tugs at it, the resistance seemed to be unnatural--she must be holding it back. It didn't seem strong, though. He attempts to draw it closer and, though a few drops spill here and there, he manages to wind it into a rope-like shape from the ball it had been.

Despite himself, he has a look of amusement on his face, his mouth open in a sort of half-grin. This was, as poorly as he'd taken getting his powers, not that bad.

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