November 2015




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May. 9th, 2015



[The writing is sharp, spiked. It is dark and the words are unmarred by splotches: expensive ink does not spread deeply into the paper.]


General man-of-all-work. Discretion and a strong stomach required.

Salaried. Uniform paid for.


[locks to victor f, john w]

[locked to victor f]

How did you find Miss Murray? And have you read the news?

[locked to john w]

You gave me the impression that you were a doctor, sir.

May. 7th, 2015


PD London: Holmes & Watson on the (other's) case.

[Sherlock Holmes didn't wait for the news. He was not long in town, but he hardly needed to wait for the morning delivery for such things. He had a network, after all, and it certainly hadn't fallen apart in his absence.

For an excuse, Mr. Holmes granted his not inconsiderable services to the Coroner local to the neighbourhood, a man of advanced age, overfond of drink, and unfortunately ill that morning when he accidentally ingested a bit of bad fish (or so he thought). Said Coroner was not precisely aware that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was doing him such a great service as to appear ex officio, when sending for him was something of a formality to begin with.

Mr. Holmes, in this capacity, named himself as that great man's nearest subordinate, wearing only a bare nod to disguise in the form of a dull black hat, shoe polish on his hair, and one of his better coats, padded at the shoulders and around the belt so as to hang and hide the detective's considerable height and over-thin body. Some mouth cotton to alter the length of his jaw and set of his head, and it was enough to be going on with.

He knew Vauxhall well, and successfully avoided the crowd to investigate the body and surrounding while a few policemen herded away the gawkers. Sherlock was avoiding his old comrades in the police force handily, choosing his timing well and enjoying relative silence while he worked the ground on one knee.]

Apr. 29th, 2015


Mina M, Leif S, Public

[Perhaps he is a touch idle, if not lonely.]

[Locked to Mina M]
Miss Mina, how did you enjoy the festivities?

[Locked to Leif S]
I admit to finding you a curious fellow, sir. One happy to oblige others and give his many opinions free of charge, yet unduly silent thereafter.

[Like one might put out an advertisement in the classifieds; typed out thusly.]


—A young widow of pleasant disposition, dark-haired and dark-eyed, name of Zoe. Last seen at the Murray House, engaging in idle conversation with this gentleman on the vast, enigmatic topic of Fate.

Apr. 28th, 2015



Next time, I shall ignore such invitations and simply stay home.

The company was enjoyable, but I do not enjoy being whispered about.

Apr. 9th, 2015



[At the party. In a fine hand with a fine-inked fountain pen, the wood backing of the bar jostling texture into otherwise smooth letters and with a wetness ringing out from the top left corner by way of condensation and third glass of brandy.]

This is extraordinary. There is some science at work I cannot quite parse.

Apr. 2nd, 2015


[Party log]

Who: Whoever wishes to attend!
What: Party at the Murray House
Where: Penny Dreadful(s)
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Please place locations and warnings in subject headers. Feel free to "dibs" threads. Simultaneous threads per character are allowed.

The Murray House was situated at the end of the street in the affluent part of London. Imposing, it was a structure built by a man determined to leave his mark on the world in every possible way.

The door was answered by two footmen, and carriages were directed around the back. Men and women awaited announcement, all agog to see the disreputable women who inhabited the home. One fair and disgraced. The other dark and possessed. Or so the rumors said.

The lights were dim for the evening, as was the fashion for parties with darker themes. On silver platters, champagne and sweets were served, and there was a bar in the sitting room with stronger drinks and cigars for the gentlemen.

Beyond the grand entrance hall, the parlor was a room for the telling of fortunes. The woman at the table was not Miss Ives, but a hired woman from town, her fortunes daring and decadent. Low lights, and chairs around the table, the woman prophesied the strangest things for all to hear.

Theatricals were held in in the study, on a platform before Sir Malcom's impressive map. The performances were Grand Guignol in nature, with faux vampires feasting on innocent girls, pretend werewolves eating young lads, and much fake blood to go around in a room deliberately darkened and filled with the delighted screams of London's elite.

The grand staircase led to the upstairs halls, and the finely appointed rooms beyond, where none of the doors were barred for the evening. And surely the basement, with its darkness and random shackles, should have been locked for the evening, but it was not.