Doctor Stephen Strange (mister_doctor) wrote in thedisplaced, @ 2018-06-29 09:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, stephen strange (mcu) |
Who: Stephen Strange, Sherlock Holmes (BBC au)
When: BACK DATED a loooooong time ago - April 6, following this exchange.
Where: Alola, a tea shop near the ship
What: Facetwins meet
Warnings: No
Status: Complete in Gdocs
“Hello, handsome.” Stephen had a smirk on his face when he greeted his face-twin with these words, thinking himself clever for his remark. He noted the obvious differences between Sherlock and himself - the curly hair, the clean shaven face, the choice of clothes, and most obvious, his unscarred hands. Stephen let his gaze linger perhaps a beat or two longer on the hands than necessary - his own hands were covered by a pair of yellow gloves to hide the garish result of his car accident. But while his hands might be whole, Stephen was interested how Sherlock walked with a limp and needed a cane. Stephen didn’t recall Sherlock’s character injuring himself this way on his show, and he wondered if it would be too intrusive to ask what happened.
“The tea here is good, I like it. But I’m not sure it’ll meet up to your high standards.” This was a bit of a bite against Sherlock’s comment on the journal, which made him sound like an elitist. Stephen shouldn’t have been so hypocritical, since he used to be the exact same way when he was practicing surgery, but the remark just sort of slipped out. They had agreed to meet at this small cafe near the area where the ships were docks, and Stephen was found sitting outside, at a table under an umbrella, already indulging. “They brew a local strain of leaf here,” he said, raising his cup slightly to indicate that’s what he’d ordered. “It have a fruity aftertaste.”
"So you're the charming one, then," Sherlock drawled, but despite his dismissive words, his eyes were intensely curious. His gaze darted over Stephen, taking in every detail and extrapolating information (staring at hands, wearing gloves, car accident, former surgeon), but if anything caught and held Sherlock's fleeting attention, it was: "Your fashion sense isn't hopeless." In fact, he looked fairly attractive — at least, objectively, in the vague sense that Sherlock wasn't actually interested in his facetwin. That would be strange and uncomfortable.
Finished with his brief inspection, Sherlock took the seat opposite Stephen and somehow managed to look as though he were lounging, even with the knee brace. He rolled his eyes at the comment regarding his taste in tea. "I'm British," was all he said about the matter, considering it settled. This was actually ... kind of nice. The good-natured sniping made him think of Mycroft, which he immediately pushed out of his head. He ordered the closest thing they had to Tetley before zeroing his gaze on Stephen again. "Were you ginger as a child?" He asked, apropos of nothing.
The Sherlock-facetwin that was in Tumbleweed before had never reached out to Stephen before, giving the sorcerer the impression he was being snubbed, and / or avoided. It was nice that this Sherlock agreed to meet him, if only for the reason Stephen was tickled by hearing “him” speak with an English accent.
“What I wear is less fashion, and more practical,” Stephen explained as they waited for Sherlock’s order of tea to arrive. “This tunic is what members of my order wear, sort of like a martial artist wearing a gi. And this cloak is functional. It’s a magical item possessing a type of sentience, It choose to be with me, and offers me protection and assistance.” He sipped from his own glass, and then responded, “Ginger? No. I’ve always had dark hair. Let me guess, yours was?”
The American accent was certainly unfortunate, but Sherlock's attention was diverted by the mention of a sentient cloak, his gaze flicking to the material with open curiosity. "Do they have a name?" He asked. That seemed the most pertinent question. If he was addressing an individual possessing independent thought and a will of their own, Sherlock wanted to know what the cloak preferred to be called. How did they even communicate? He sat up, a bit eagerly all of a sudden, completely ignoring the tea when it was set down next to his elbow.
"Yes," he replied to the not-quite-deduction, eyes flicking to Stephen briefly. "You're an only child as well. Interesting. It's for the best. I suppose you can borrow Mycroft if you need one." It was a joke. Sort of. Then Sherlock seemed to realize he'd neglected his tea, and he went about fixing it, dumping in far more sugar than was really healthy and adding a generous amount of milk.
“It’s alright. I’m familiar with Mycroft from the network. I don’t need to borrow him,” Stephen dryly told Sherlock. He knew the essentials about Sherlock and Mycroft’s dynamic the same way he knew how Sherlock was able to determine he was an only child - he’d watched BBC’s Sherlock back in his home world. It was fascinating how Sherlock was able to observe minute details and make correct deductions about a stranger’s life, and he briefly wondered if he, with his photographic memory, could be trained to do the same thing. It might be useful, but then he thought of something and asked, “What’s it like, to see the world as you do? In details that most fail to notice? Is it exhausting?” It wasn’t a sarcastic question, but one out of genuine curiosity.
“The Cloak?” Stephen turned his head so he could glance to the side where he could see its high collar sticking up. “It really doesn’t have a name. Just the cloak.” But now that Sherlock mentioned it, Stephen again began to wonder - it was something he never inquired about, he’d just taken it for granted. “There’s only this one,” he continued, taking Sherlock’s use of the word they to mean there might be more out there. “And… it manages to make its desires known.” He ended his sentence with a small, knowing smile.
Sherlock actually stopped breathing for a second, the surprise clear on his face. No one had ever asked him a question like that — not even John. What was it like? "It is," he agreed in response to the exhausting comment, actually compelled to tell the truth. For the moment, anyway. "I'll get migraines if I don't take time to decompress. It's not as thrilling as it might seem." That, at least, was something only people very close to him knew; namely, Mycroft, John, and Mrs. Hudson. Not that he'd had much choice in the matter. They all found out because he lived with or in close proximity to them for long enough that they simply became aware of it.
He shifted his gaze to Stephen's collar when the other man looked there, a gleeful look beginning to take over his expression. "How?" Sherlock breathed, already beginning to lean forward a little, as if being nearer to the cloak might answer the hundreds of questions he had. Perhaps seeing his own excitement mirrored on Stephen's face was having a positive effect on his mood, too. It felt at once familiar and foreign to be sitting across his facetwin now, but it was interesting, and he was delighted by this new curiosity he'd never come across before. Who knew his offer of fashion advice would lead him here: discussing a sentient piece of clothing.
“It sounds like a burden,” Stephen commented upon Sherlock’s deductive ability. He set down his teacup and said, “I have an eidetic memory with perfect recall. It’s not like the way you use your mind palace, but the results are pretty much the same.” Stephen wasn’t trying to brag, but hoped to find more common ground between them. He paused to consider how much he ought to reveal, then continued heedlessly, “My memory, plus my skills as a neurosurgeon brought me a lot of money and notoriety, but also made me arrogant and selfish. That is, until…” Stephen tugged at his gloves to remove them, then displayed his heavily scarred hands for Sherlock to examine as they trembled slightly, unable to remain perfectly still. “Texting while driving,” he explained. “I careened off the side of a cliff and crashed into a river, below, crushing the bones of my hands in the process.” Stephen wasn’t looking for pity, but spoke as a matter of fact. “Eleven hours of surgery and eleven pins later, the nerves of my hands suffered permanent damage. My career as a neurosurgeon was finished, but my accident propelled me to reexamine my life, my priorities, and ultimately pointed me in the direction of becoming a sorcerer.”
On the subject of the cloak, as soon as Sherlock asked his single word question, both tips of the cloak’s collar began to flutter, simultaneously in a movement that might be taken as a wave. Again, Stephen glanced at the collar, then looked up at Sherlock, and shrugged one of his shoulders. “That’s how,” he answered. While Stephen was sitting on the cloak, its edges rose and reached out toward the other man across the table, brushing against Sherlock’s knee as the nearest place it could reach. “I think it wants to get to know you, too,” Stephen said with a small smile of amusement.
Sherlock knew Stephen wasn't bragging. Data was data, after all, and although he'd deduced a few of these details, the explanation behind it was a welcome one to the detective. He listened quietly, processing Stephen's story, and made no secret of the fact that he was peering with great interest at the man's hands once they were revealed. He wouldn't say Stephen was lucky to be alive. That was obvious, and an unhelpful statement people often made when faced with tragedy of this magnitude. Stephen had lost his ability to do the thing he loved. If Sherlock were ever in a similar position where he wouldn't be able to investigate crimes ... it didn't bear thinking about. So he remained silent, lifting his gaze to look upon Stephen through new eyes. There was respect inside him now. "Do you prefer sorcery to surgery?" He asked, straight to the point. Sherlock was curious, particularly because he couldn't deduce what the man liked more.
If he felt a kinship with Stephen beginning to take root inside him, well. It couldn't be helped. He had also suffered an injury that disabled him, one he wasn't quite ready to talk about. Perhaps later.
The detective actually smiled when the cloak responded to him with what could only be described as a little wave. Sherlock's whole face lit up, and he looked ten years younger, the frown lines smoothing away to reveal childlike wonder. "Oh, you're lovely," he enthused, delighted the cloak was just as curious about him as he was about the cloak. He reached out to touch the fabric, a little tentative, not wanting to disturb Stephen's friend. "How intelligent is Cloak?" Sherlock asked, full of questions now that he was feeling more comfortable around the other man.
That was a good question, one which made Stephen sit back and reflect upon before answering. “The style of sorcery that I perform has a spiritual aspect. A philosophy that’s much like Buddhism, and includes meditation. I can honestly say that I’m a better person because of it. Not perfect, but better. So, while I materially I’m nowhere as well off, internally, I’m much more at peace.” He picked up his gloves and began putting them on again. “Plus, I can still use my hands to help people, with my spells.”
After the gloves, Stephen picked up his tea again and took a sip, watching the exchange between the cloak and Sherlock. The corner of the cloak wrapped around Sherlock’s finger when he touched it, and then twirled around his hand. “It’s able to judge a person’s character, which is how it came to me. The cloak is tempermental, and won’t let let itself be worn by just anybody.” Which was Stephen’s subtle way of saying that the cloak had a good opinion of Sherlock. “This way, it shows preferences. It also can determine a dangerous situation, and will protect, or even prevent me from doing something it thinks is too reckless.”
The cloak’s collar started to slap Stephen upon his cheek to get his attention, a gesture that annoyed Stephen until he looked down at it to see, then it pointed in Sherlock’s direction. “Stand up,” Stephen told Sherlock, pushing himself away from their table so he could get out of his chair. “It wants to get to know you better.”