Dennis Reynolds (royalvillain) wrote in onewaythreads, @ 2018-01-25 04:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | sadji samara, sherlock holmes |
Who: Sherlock and Sadji
What: Learning that Preya isn’t London and vampires are real.
Where: Menouthis
When: Thursday, January 25
Rating: TBA
Sherlock adapted to change badly and he was learning this more by the day as he woke up in a bed (not his) and trudged into the kitchen (not his but equally messy, as if a tornado had run through it) and glowered at the loaf of bread sitting on the counter, wondering if he could ever, really truly consider any of these things to be his own at some point. There was the skull. He took that, the papers he deemed relevant with a knife driven through them on the mantel but there was that stark, sterile lighting in this apartment, fluorescents and it didn’t contain any of the corners, depth or textures that Baker Street had. Perhaps one of the biggest qualms he had with the whole thing right now was that his breakfast wasn’t sitting out hot for him and pre-made with a steaming cup of tea. He didn’t know how long he just stared at the bread blankly, but a thousand thoughts raced through his head and his heart, well, it felt cold. Colder than it had in a long time. This wasn’t home. He wouldn’t turn to find him emerging from his room with his laptop in hand, already at work on some new account of a case, he wouldn’t have breakfast with him, he wouldn’t say hello to him and the place was quiet. Like it had been before he met John, when he had to fill his head with all kind of chemicals and noise to keep the static in the back of his mind from reaching unbearable levels. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t here to clean, which would become a problem in short order as he refused and held contempt for the concept of picking up after himself or organizing things. He had always referred to it as ‘controlled chaos’.
He didn’t feel like a God here, though. He felt the weight of being man, alone. Without a clue as to how to approach others or god forbid, ask for help. So he answered every single message in response to his, took pleasure in people’s horror and discovered a very worthy cause: mass delusion in Preya and the unexplained disappearance of residents in the country in stark contrast to the ban on leaving. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Mycroft was pulling the strings here too. He couldn’t rule it out. People disappeared and appeared all the time on his account. It was an extraordinary case and he would have to go at it alone. Just like after the Fall. Infiltrating terrorist cells, illegal fighting rings, the burgeoning sex trade in Eastern Europe before Mycroft pulled him out of the deepest depths, the shadows every parent warned their child of, away from the real things that went bump in the night. Back home.
What’s more was that his hunch had been correct, Moriarty was indeed here… but intent on playing hide and seek. Sherlock would show the king of crime what happened when he insisted on playing these childish games with Sherlock Holmes and repay him for those two years he wasted abroad playing Mycroft’s bloody errand boy.
Sherlock didn’t even toast the bread, just smeared cold butter on it and choked it down, finally making himself a cup of earl grey to get the taste out of his mouth and wet his lips. He’d have to go shopping. He only had bread, butter and a box of tea. He would. At some point, he thought vaguely then waved it from his mind. He had his first interview to conduct and that just so happened to be with the man, woman, person, whatever he’d just spoken to online, the one he incorrectly guessed the age of. When pressed, he’d admit that he chose them first out of frustration, he wasn’t used to being wrong when it came to suggesting a person’s age, their livelihood or the goings-on in their personal lives. So, because Sadji (they called themselves) had frustrated him, that made him the first interview he’d conduct. After all, it wasn’t as if he could stuff the population of Preya and take all their accounts at once. He felt the weight of possibility in his hands, like a sealed envelope that contained the contents of his future in it. That was what eventually got him out the door, grey shirt, coat, black trousers and dress shoes on. At least no one made him wear the hat here, he hated the hat.
As he brushed by people on the sidewalk, he attempted not to look but couldn’t help noticing. A bit of Lucky Strike ash on the collar of a man with a lollipop in his mouth (oral fixation but no nicotine replacement, he'd already had his fix), told his wife (left hang ring finger) that he was quitting but clearly had no intention of doing so, the pregnant secretary considering an abortion (absent ring on the left hand, crumpled tissue emerging from her tight blazer, the way she touched her stomach uncomfortably and was tearing up as she spoke on the phone to the father - her boss, but the cross she wore around her neck made him believe she’d be giving it up for adoption), his eyes darted even as he tried to keep them forward. He couldn’t switch it on and off. This was simply ‘what he did’. More machine than man, he filtered the world he saw through the knowledge he had and knew things other people would never see. He was nearly on fire with the observations he took in today and knew it was because he was completely undistracted. No John to worry about. No Mycroft to answer to. No Lestrade ringing his mobile. This was absolutely and completely his own territory and a little smile pulled at his lips. He was at peak performance. Not a single care in the world but the case. It’s not like he really needed anyone to eat breakfast with anyway. The food still went down one way or another… and he could do without the celebrity status.
Sherlock reached the stop that would lead him to Menouthis a couple of streets away and kept looking. A single father walking a dog he was allergic to en route to the vet for his daughter. He had a bit of hot pink nail varnish on his thumb, wore his wedding ring around his neck (widower) and tried not to stand downwind of the dog (named ‘Puppy’, no doubt by his daughter) as he sneezed into his sleeve, nose reddened, the unvaccinated puppy bouncing jauntily ahead.
Sadji was right. The black pyramid among the buildings and apartments couldn’t be missed. He slipped into the door, taking in the decor of the restaurant, walls decorated with a flair for the exotic, not a single white waiter on staff and he knew Sadji had been proud of both those things, given their name and photograph. He certainly couldn’t just waltz up to one of the staff and ask for Sadji, he wanted to see the place for himself, no excuses, explanation or lies. He showed his identification without looking the bouncer in the eye, it seemed to be lit with strobes and colored lights up there. He went up the stairs, eyes looking up to his destination and followed the stairs to the top and took the lower of the two levels. He ducked into the room, a hand on the wall, head poking in and looking around rapidly. There was no doubt he was surprised by what he saw. Half-nude male dancers gyrating on poles and kneeling down for patrons to put dollar bills in their underwear. He stared for a moment at one of the dancers, squinting… that one was on steroids. How typical. Sherlock ducked back out just as quickly, nothing of interest in there - well, at least to him. He didn’t care for the smell of sweat and the sight of men enslaved by their arousal. No mystery there.
As he proceeded to the second level, he could only guess what he’d find and he was right. Female dancers, topless. This time he didn’t even stop to assess the dancers, it was a waste of time. He quickly made his way back down the stairs, long legs jogging down them at a brisk pace and crossed the restaurant, ignoring the bouncer watching him with a little suspicion from the bottom of the stairs he’d exited. Probably wasn’t used to people coming and going that quickly.
At that, Sherlock flashed his ID again and made his way downstairs. It was a lounge with a bar, draped in golds, lit up in purples and blues. Red was a better color. It inspired passion in the insipid at the mere suggestion at it and he had to commend Sadji for avoiding blue light in the restaurant, blue light was notorious for curbing appetites according to studies he’d read. He headed to the bar and took a quick look at the cocktails they offered and stopped, blinking and focusing on one thing in particular. Did that actually say ‘pig’s blood’? Perhaps it was an ethnic delicacy, after all, Americans seemed to grow nauseous at the mention of blood sausages and eel pies and he could hardly call traditional English food ‘ethnic’. But this struck him as different somehow. It seemed wholly unappetizing when advertised like that, but the place was well-furnished, polished near to perfection and the staff looked well-compensated for their duties judging by their clothing and accessories.
He read the full menu, noting a few other animals’ blood mentioned and put it down, frowning to himself as he walked away. Was this a haven of sorts? For… occultists, the ‘vampire’ subculture that was at a fever pitch in London, a specific religion, people of a certain region, merely the adventurous diner? There were no patrons there yet, too early in the day, he assumed. Well, there was only one thing left to do. Talk to Sadji and narrow it down properly.
Sherlock took the stairs back up to the restaurant and walked straight up to the host. Without any greeting or ceremony, he said, “Sherlock Holmes to see Sadji. I was told I could meet…him here.” The host leaned in a little, not quite having taken in the information he’d said at such a quick clip. “Sherlock. Holmes. I'm here to see Sadji,” he enunciated exaggeratedly, a bit of annoyance written across his expression. The host seemed a little taken aback either at his attitude or his apparent disinterest in dinning here. Sherlock waited, lowering his head and narrowing his eyes a little, watching the server disappear into the back, hands moving to the collar of his coat to make sure it was turned up the way he liked it.