sherlock holmes đź’€ (unsolved) wrote in witchinghour, @ 2014-11-12 11:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | character: leslie knope, character: sherlock holmes |
paper hearts were meant to unfold
WHO: Leslie & Sherlock
WHERE: Sleepy Hollow Inn
WHEN: Monday, early evening
WHAT: Sherlock makes a house call for a disembodied foot, Leslie makes a friend. Everyone wins?
WARNING: Body horror, vague references to torture, Sherlock’s standard fare.
STATUS: In progress.
Sherlock had just finished an enormously productive weekend, all things considered. For someone who had been boarding a plane and subsequently facing what could have only been a slow, agonizing certain death, he rather felt like he’d done well for himself. It was certainly possible that Sherlock had in fact died already and the netherworld was precisely as he might have commissioned it: teeming with all manner of gruesome entities that were conveniently detached from their bodies. However, as he wasn’t much for speculation on life, liberty, and the complexities of quantum physics, Sherlock dismissed his initial confusion in favor of fully embracing this second chance at life. Or rather, death—if he was going to be specific about it.
With John and Mary’s future assured back in the land of the living, Sherlock shifted his focus to the next best thing: hacking away at the inn's boarded backdoor with an axe. He’d managed fairly well for himself since he woke up alone and (possibly) alive two days ago. Exchanging his suit for a well-worn outfit of the recently deceased, he briefly contemplated keeping his shoes before practicality won out over good fashion sense. Leather boots were more conducive to wading through unidentified muck and kicking over loose windowpanes, after all. The whole affair was rather like going undercover again, though with less torture this time.
After locating the room proper, Sherlock had already kicked down the door when he reflected that perhaps he was riding a little too high on this whole post-apocalyptic empowerment thing. Best to use his manners this time. Unfortunately, instead of the “Where’s the foot?” he meant to say to the new arrival he'd met on the network, the words died in his throat. His gaze swept over Leslie, and whether it was from wielding an axe without concern for apprehension or the sheer unadulterated joy from a proper adrenaline rush, the words came unfiltered and in rapid succession.
“Mid-level bureaucrat. Graduated top of your class with a considerable laundry list of honors. The early loss of a parent left an impression on you. Mother? No, father. Your mother exhibited control issues for much of your life. Works in the same field, but lacks your moral obligation. Ethics was never her strong suit, but it’s certainly yours. The vast majority of people you meet are corrupt, apathetic, or both, and that bothers you—but rather than deter you from your life of public service, it inspires you to work harder. You’re in more danger of succumbing to an addiction of breakfast pastries than giving up the climb to presidential office."
He bit his tongue to stop more of the onslaught, looking pained, then reticent, then defiant. So what if he burned a bridge with the first person he met? Sherlock sniffed, gesturing in Leslie's general direction with the sharp end of the axe. Not his best first impression by far.
“The foot, Madame."