sh (humanerror) wrote in saveatlantisic, @ 2016-12-28 13:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, *fran, *gail, sherlock holmes, the doctor (12) |
It was frigid. Sherlock was certainly used to the elements — one didn't traverse through the likes of London improperly dressed, after all — but the chill felt particularly biting today, unforgiving and relentless. Still, the weather didn't stop him. He buttoned his coat up further and continued the gargantuan task of hacking away at the sheet of ice across the cemetery. Bits of the top layer had chipped away since Sherlock began the venture hours ago, but other than that small victory, the ice remained firm.
You're going to hurt yourself. And for what? Mycroft said, as condescending in Sherlock's mind as he was in reality. He continued to swing the pickaxe without pause, cold sweat dripping down his spine. Really, brother mine. I warned you, but you didn't listen. It was Moriarty's voice in his head now, lilting and lofty. He swung harder. The voices didn't stop — taunting him, always poking at old wounds — but he was able to ignore them by completely exhausting himself physically. For a short while, anyway. He was shaking by the time he finally stopped, forced to lean on the pickaxe for support lest his legs give out from under him. "Stupid," Sherlock muttered to himself, and he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. If his eyes stung, he told himself it was the cold. “I’d say!” the Doctor commented on the single word he’d heard Sherlock utter. “You’re going to throw your back out or break that pickaxe before you manage to get a foot deep.” He approached the gravesite where Sherlock was working, carrying a cardboard box, which, by the printing on its side, revealed that it was once used to hold freshly squeezed orange juice, without pulp. The weather was cold, by human standards, but the Doctor could tolerate lower temperatures much better, and so he wore only his blue crombie coat and a lightweight sweatshirt underneath. No hat, no scarf, but he did have mittens - crazy coloured ones that Clara picked for him off the mitten bush, earlier in the month. The Doctor set the box down, and the weight of its contents caused it to sink an inch into the snow. “It’s a wonder the police haven’t caught you yet.” Sherlock's head snapped up. He hadn't heard the man's approach, which meant he must have been very distressed indeed. Slipping. He was slipping. Through narrowed eyes, his gaze swept over the Doctor and collected all points of interest: lack of suitable attire, unusual cardboard box, sentimental gloves. This man was older than he appeared by a significant amount of time, and he wasn't the only one. It was that bit of information — that loose thread Sherlock couldn't quite place — that prompted him to speak. "How many?" He didn't bother elaborating, because it was clear this man was far more intelligent than most. He was one of many siblings or, perhaps, one of many iterations, as Sherlock was beginning to understand. There were over 25,000 alleged adaptations of himself, after all. It wasn't something he enjoyed thinking about for too long. The police comment inspired an eye-roll. "Yes, it's a wonder. Are you here to thaw the ice or not?" “How many what?” the Doctor asked with child-like innocence while removing his mittens, one after the other. “Coconuts? Backflips? Help me out. I don’t do vague. I know you have your thing, but we’ll get along better if you’re straightforward.” Now, whether or not the Doctor would be straightforward was another question. Turning to the box, he reached inside. “That’s what I’m here for.” The Doctor pulled the object out and held it up for Sherlock to see with a grandiose flourish. “Ta-da! I call it the Thaw-o-Matic! Pretty cool, isn’t it?” He was quite proud of his creation, though upon first inspection it looked nothing more like a bunch of random things lumped together. The main body was a car battery recharger with a handle, by which it was held. The red and black wires were cut, feeding in and out of a pair of hair driers, which were somehow attached to one side. The other side had a clock face with Roman numerals that was rusted and worn. There was also a blue coil dangling from the back, that wobbled whenever the whole thing moved. There were a few expressions fighting for dominance on Sherlock's face: incredulity, disgust, amusement, and a glint in his eyes that seemed to suggest morbid curiosity had won out. The Doctor was interesting, despite his general dislike of being teased by people he wasn't comfortable around yet, and interesting always caught his attention. Sherlock would play along if it yielded answers. "How many of you are there?" He suspected this one was the last of something, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what that something was. He could see it rimmed around the Doctor's eyes and in the way he carried tension — as if the burden of it dragged behind him always, heavy and inescapable. He's alone like you are, his mind prompted. The voice was straightforward and, as ever, entirely correct. Sherlock shifted a bit and finally tore his gaze away to survey the ... contraption ... that was supposedly about to aid in his current pursuits. "It looks like a child made it," he commented, dryly, though he was still deeply intrigued. "Let's see it, then." Sherlock’s clarification of his question made the Doctor pause, then he casually explained, “Only one, as far as I can tell. But twelve variations. One thing you’ve got to understand about me… I may look human, but I’m not. I’m a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey, in the constellation of Kasterborous. I can tell by your face you don’t believe me. Anyway,” he turned the cardboard box upside down and propped his foot upon it while he set his Thaw-o-Matic upon his knee to make sure none of the wires had come loose while he’d carried it to the cemetery. “It’s true. And our physiology is different. Whenever we are near death or mortally wounded, our bodies go through a regeneration process where we essentially become reborn, different face, different personality, but the same person. I’ve been through twelve regenerations, now.” Usually, the Doctor didn’t mind talking about this sort of thing, especially to newbies. But there was something about Sherlock’s tone of questioning, the way he looked at him, that made him nervous, though he tried to hide it by fiddling with the machine. When he told Sherlock he’d been through twelve regenerations, he couldn’t disguise the dismay he felt, and he revealed his thoughts on the matter in both his subtle facial expression, but mostly his voice. It was his opinion that he’d lived far too long. “I had to make do with what I could get. This dial,” he said, hurrying along to explain the machine, pointing at the clock face, “selects the size of the area you want to thaw, and the intensity of the heat. You want a grave-size area, so... “ the Doctor used his finger to turn the hour hand on the clock, “... I think Four will do the trick. And we want to do it quickly, so I’m going to crank this baby up to eight.” And for that, he turned the minute hand to the desired number. “Okay, stand back, unless you want to be toasted.” He hoisted the Thaw-o-Matic to waist level and pointed it at the grave Sherlock had been working at. He flipped the switch, which was just an ordinary light on-off switch, and the machine produced an other-worldly hum. He then pressed a yellow button on the side, and from the hair driers came, not hot air, but an intense beam of red light, that shone down upon the area. Five seconds later, the Doctor flipped off the light switch to turn the machine off. “Try digging now.” It wasn't that Sherlock didn't believe the Doctor's story, per say, but he was giving him a look that suggested he'd heard better theories from the likes of Anderson. Still, the expression shifted into a sharper one that tended to unnerve people. Only one, he'd said. Twelve times the Doctor had regenerated, presumably watched people come and go in his lifetime, and still he was here. Stagnant. Trapped. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted to exist like that, and by the looks of it, he could only deduce that the Doctor didn't either. It was that fact that completely changed his opinion of the other man (or rather, Time Lord). "I hope you don't expect me to call you 'Lord' now," was all he said about the matter, but really, it was a quiet acknowledgement of the Doctor's situation. Sherlock saw him for what he was, and he respected him for it — much like a veteran might respect another. And they were both veterans, of a sort. Come home from war to find empty houses they didn't recognize. Sherlock's fingers flexed around the pickaxe, fighting back the tide of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He really was losing his ability to keep himself together these days. It was mildly distressing. The Doctor's rapid-fire explanation came as a welcome distraction, though, and Sherlock was surprised to find himself amused by the whole thing. He didn't realize he was grinning in earnest until the Doctor completed his work, and sure enough, the earth yielded beneath the weight of a shovel when Sherlock gave it a try. "Thank you," he said, softly, not quite looking at the man but still attempting to convey far more than he had words to express. “Doctor will do just fine,” came the correction of how he wanted to be called. “I’m what they call a Rebel Time Lord. I gave up the stuffy, starched collars of Time Lord society, stole a TARDIS… that’s my spaceship, by the way…. and took off to explore all of Space and Time. I’m technically president on my planet of Gallifrey, but I think I’d rather turn the Thaw-o-Matic on myself than ever play by their rules.” As he spoke, he detached a couple of the lead-in wires for safety's sake, and bent over to put the machine back into its box. When he stood up and saw Sherlock’s grin, the Doctor couldn’t help but mirror the grin with one of his one, wide and bearing his teeth like some predatory beast, recognizing and acknowledging he was in the presence of another maniac. “Don’t mention it,” the Doctor said, noticing Sherlock’s discomfiture when it came to thanking him. “It was fun.” And it gave him an interesting goal to focus upon, something to do besides the day in day out normality of human life. “Just tell me, what do you expect to find, or not find.” Sherlock twirled the shovel idly, watching the Doctor put away his machinery with great interest. He had every intention of investigating how something like that could be made, but that would be a case for another day. Now he needed to focus on the mission at hand. One step at a time. "I expect to find something other than a body," Sherlock said, easily falling into his own explanation. The Doctor would be able to keep up. "Given the dubious nature of disposal, I need to confirm the cemetery isn't an elaborate hoax. Why bother to bury anyone at all if you're so eager to cremate agents? There could be something of interest lying here. I intend to find out." The Doctor blankly stared through Sherlock’s brief, enthusiastic explanation. He could’ve easily knocked down Sherlock’s hypothesis, but the human just seemed so determined, he realized no amount of logic and argument would be able to sway Sherlock from his course. The only way Sherlock could have his mind set at ease was to be allowed to complete his task and uncover what he needed to find; literally and figuratively. “Good luck with that,” the Doctor said, with the indication that he wouldn’t be helping Sherlock any further besides using his Thaw-o-Matic. “Do you need me to thaw out another grave, or is one enough? I’ve got to get back to the Tower.” "This one will suffice." Sherlock had turned away from him at this point, already fully absorbed in his work. It wouldn't yield the results he initially anticipated, but the Doctor's own observations were entirely correct: Sherlock needed this task. He would see it through even if it meant risking his own personal safety should the authorities get involved. |