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Who: Sherlock Holmes, James Moriarty, Adele, John Watson
What: Two geniuses, lots of anger. And the foolish people who come between them.
When: Saturday, March 17th, early evening
Where: Clinic
Summary: James Moriarty. Sherlock Holmes. The same room in the clinic. SPOILERS ABOUND FOR "REICHENBACH FALL."
Rating: PG-13 to R (linked thread- R for violence)
Note: The backstory may be found here. Nothing the characters will know, but for the muns who want to read how things went down.

It's so easy.

That is, perhaps, the most remarkable thing to Sherlock Holmes, who has never really had the desire to hurt someone for the sake of hurting them. When it's necessary, yes. When it gets him information, of course. But not solely for the fun of it.

But... as he stands with his hands wrapped around James Moirarty's neck, thin fingers applying pressure... he understands. Someone like him-- someone so bored with most people. To feel that power, to feel the ability to take away life with his bare hands... Yes, he understands the high.

He doesn't like understanding, but it has become something he has to understand.

Because he cannot let Moriarty live.

Both men are dressed as New Feathers, and both are wounded. The tall one has minor cuts-- stab wounds, actually-- all over his body, and one of his wings is already injured, feathers missing and a slash in it. A puddle near a wall shows the contents of his stomach that the injury brought up. The smaller man has several blows to the face, and their blood has pooled together on the floor, even as both still bleed.

Sherlock Holmes leans into this new assault, ignoring the well-manicured fingernails digging into his hands and arms. He has the criminal mastermind trapped against a wall, and he isn't going to move.

Not until this man is dead.

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With an overcast and dreary morning, a sour tinge to the air akin to vinegar and sour milk, and an odd lethargy to the village plaza Adele is somewhat unsettled on her way to the village clinic for her shift.

Something, though she was not certain what as of yet, was going to go wrong. A prickling, niggling feeling in the back of her mind would not be silent; though she put no stock in premonition. Paranoia? Yes. Superstition? No. Still, it almost has her paging Willock or Law for the first hour of her shift.

Almost.

The evening remains quiet, however, and for this she is grateful. Utter calm until half past eight. Then there are voices. Crashes. Sounds of conflict. Concern and curiosity bids her crack the door open and peer inside. Two New Feathers, injured, fighting. The tall one was winning, even with the injured wing. Someone must intervene, but she was in no condition to handle a hostile patient. She ducks back out again, scribbles a hasty message to the other medical professionals in the village. Something short, requesting assistance, but nonspecific as to why.

Going in on her own would be stupid. But. Inaction would see a man killed. "...Merde."

Cursing herself for an idiot she steps into the room and glowers, voice hard, curt, and authoritative. "Let him go."

The new voice surprises Sherlock. He didn't expect that.

...Then again, he didn't expect to wake up today to find wings on his back and James Moriarty right in front of him. He doesn't look over her, but the surprise causes his grip to loosen for a few seconds when he speaks, voice more than a growl slipping between gritted teeth.

"Of course." A beat. "In about two minutes."

Adele has other things to worry about at the moment, but when she checks her journal again, there's quick note of reply below hers.

en route

John had been sitting in the coffee shop, trying to take his afternoon tea like it was any other day and rereading the welcome entry for what seemed to be the fifth time. A lengthy thing, and he still wasn't certain he understood all of it. He wasn't expecting much when he paused to turn the page back toward the most recent entries, so it was a good kick in the shins to see the hurried slant practically smeared across a fresh entry. He was on his feet while his reply was written, and abandoned all his things save his journal at the table he'd been sitting. Whatever was going on at the clinic, it was an emergency; the details didn't exactly matter so far as prompting him to come.

He sees Adele open and close the door from the vantage point he has pinned up against the wall, and immediately he manages to draw up quite the scheme. He smiles at Sherlock, even with the breath leaving him he musters out a quiet congratulations. He'd been admirable in his drive to see James dead - however annoying it may be. Unfortunately for Sherlock, it'd be for naught. Out of your grasp again.

In the few moments that it takes Adele to peek in and scribble in her journal, James adopts a positively frantic appearance. His eyes go wide and alarmed; scared. It only takes him a moment to go from unaffected, gleeful silence to absolute terror. Once James starts thrashing in Sherlock's grip, he's a completely different person.

The pressure Sherlock has on his throat is intense and his voice comes out rasped and dying. Shrill notes of panic going throughout it.

"Help me! Help, please! I can't -- get him off me!" The last is part statement, part bleating plead. His fingers scratch and claw at Sherlock's wrists in a bid to make his hold lessen and his feet lash out at the taller one's shins in rapid succession. All in all; a desperate bid to escape from his attacker.

"Even if you do kill him, he will be back in a week." Edging around the men, eyes flicking from the frantic face of the victim to the determined scowl of the taller man. The much taller man. She has two knives, a few sedatives in the other room, a vase, and no practical combat experience whatsoever. The options here were limited. All she could do is talk. Perhaps the surrealist nature of this place would be enough to stall him until help arrives. She gives the thrashing man one more glance, but that is all. Nothing she could do to help him just yet. "And should you do so after that, the process merely repeats itself."

A few steps closer and she pauses. Grab a wing, the injured wing. He'd let go. She wasn't so eager to exploit that; not yet. "In the end, nothing is achieved. Let him go."

"Nothing achieved?" Sherlock's face twists into something like a grin. Let Moriarty claw and fight. If this woman was just going to talk... all the better. He just had to keep his grip.

Back in a week? That threw him, but he was decided. He could not let go. If she wasn't insane (and it was possible she wasn't, he had woken up with wings on his back, damn it)... He leaned forward, trying to apply more pressure, trying to shut Moriarty up.

"I'd say a week without this monster is something achieved."

The sound of his windpipe being crushed was not a pleasant sound and the small whimper of protest that escaped him lost much of it's volume. Why wasn't she helping him?! Clearly, he needed it! A man was choking him to death and it only occurred to her to tell him to get off?

"Please! I don't know what --" a strangled intake of breath to spit the rest out, "--he's talking about! Just please help me!"

His vision was starting to haze and blot in the corners. He'd lose consciousness soon enough.

No one was coming, at least no one would be here soon enough to help, and her hands were tied. Well. Not entirely. Swearing under her breath Adele rushes the few feet between her and the taller man, darts a hand out and grips that injured wing. Squeezes. Pulls back, down.

And twists.

Sherlock saw stars the moment pressure came to the wing. Then it tightened. Then it pulled. And then--

He can't help letting go. At first, there's a tighter squeeze, but he cannot maintain that hold. Instead, he staggers back, thrashing in two directions at once. One to try and get away from the source of the pain... the other to look down, maybe even go down because he feels like he's going to be sick again.

There's a sharp cry to go with it, one that stings his throat, yet he's hardly aware he made a sound at all. He can't even see, not with further harm to that damaged wing. Thinking is well beyond him at the present moment.

John wasn't sure what to expect, but he thought he was prepared. The clinic wasn't crumbling at its foundation, wasn't crackling with the sound of gunfire or an incendiary grenade. Someone was probably contorting with cardiac arrest at worst, and that was easy on the eyes compared to the lick of a landmine or a explosive slug. He'd be alright.

The clinic was small, and the sound of a cry carried down the hall. John took to the balls of his feet and ran toward the sounds of struggle. Coming close to the room, he's hit with the acrid stench of sickness. Inside of the room, it's blood. The first thing he sees is blonde hair and a tangle of too many limbs, a clump of brown, and a man slumped against the wall. No, not a man.

First mistake. James Moriarty isn't a man at all. He's a spider.

An ugly, odious thing with a face of clay. The man against the wall had a bright red mark on his cheek, a thing that heralded a hideous bruise, and to anyone else those wide eyes would convey a sense of alarm. Except John knows the trick - he's seen this tactic before, first in the hospital and then in the reporter's flat. The greatest trick of all, however, is that Moriarty is not dead. While John hadn't been able to see the body, he'd been reliably informed that the man had shot himself in the face. It seemed pretty final to him.

Nevermind. The remedy at this point seemed simple enough.

John stepped further into the room, the intentions of his help shifting as quickly as his weight. Adele and what he assumed was the real victim of the situation could wait, whoever the poor bastard happened to be--

Dark hair, long, haphazard limbs. John's steps were stuttering before he even realized it, because no, because impossible. How long would it be before he stopped turning his head for the simplest similarity in the corner of his eye? And yet, here was Moriarty. Surely the one of the world's most dangerous criminal minds couldn't come without...

"Let him go," John said, and cleared his throat because it felt thick. He was crossing to Adele, keeping Moriarty in the corner of his eye, but clearly focusing on the dark head of hair and blood that snapped against her. His voice came stronger, and while the situation might have seemed different to Adele, it was her wrist John was reaching for, "Let him go."

Edited 2012-03-19 04:25 (UTC)

The instant the vice grip Sherlock had on his neck, James slumped to crouch against the wall while sucking in a huge gulp of air as if that would relieve the inconsistency in his vision and the muted way noise fell on his ears. He paid for that small mistake with coughing hard - trying to catch his breath.

All the while he was muttering 'thank you's' that sounded as if he were on the verge of having a panic attack.

"What is wrong with you?!" With enough air in his lungs, he can properly toss accusations at his assailant. Very quickly he throws a hand up to the gash in his crown - still fresh. Unshed tears started welling up in his eyes - a reasonable reaction to almost being killed.

Whatever thoughts or words of gratitude Adele was going to offer her assistance stuttered the moment she saw who it was that walked through the door. What. What on earth?

"...Arthur Dent. Why are you here?" Though, to be honest, it didn't seem much like Arthur Dent at all, so it was most likely someone else portrayed by the man's actor in some version or shade of reality and-

She still has two patients, one hostile if subdued, and one hysterical in the corner. There is no time for a migraine or the slew of questions she had for who he was and how he was behaving. Why one New Feather wanted the other dead so vehemently was still at question and suddenly it becomes sharply obvious that there is something important she has missed. That odd twist in her stomach that tells her she doesn't know enough of the situation and has involved herself more than she ought to. The same feeling she had when she took the job with Unger.

A choice was made, and at the moment she doesn't know if it had been the right one.

Without further question or commentary she releases the injured wing and waits for Arthur-whoever to release her wrist.

He knows the voice.

For the moment, it's a relief. He knows that voice, and he knows that the hold on his wing is gone. It doesn't matter that Moriarty is in hysterics. He's heard that act before. It's the reporter's flat all over again. What he cares about for a moment is that the world stop spinning. He slumps down before it does, vision blurring badly as light and sound daze him. He still feels sick... but there's nothing left in his stomach. His shoulders shudder, and the sound catches in his throat, but all that comes is a dry cough as he pushes himself to his feet.

He's still in pain. He's still wounded. He's still ill. But the fire in his blood is gone, and the cloud over his mind is lifting. He can turn toward the woman with a cold, harsh look. A look that seems to sum her up in seconds and dismiss her as worthless. Instead, his eyes sweep to Moriarty. Cowering in a corner, Richard Brook all over again. For now, it's a negated threat. He won't attack. He won't ruin his act now.

But there's one more.

Sherlock Holmes fixes his gaze on John Watson. On the man who demanded his release. He swallows hard, unsteady on his feet and shaking ever so slightly. But he was trying to hide that. Trying to disguise the frailty of the body, the damage done by the small shard of glass. He tries to speak, but, for once, nothing comes. He only manages another swallow and nods his head slightly.

"What?" John asks, but he's too distracted if an answer comes to him. As Adele expected, once she lets go of Sherlock, John looses her wrist. When the other man drops, so does John's stomach because, oh god, it is him, isn't it? Streaked with blood and peppering more on the floor. John starts toward him naturally, but he's distracted again by a shrill from the madman nearby.

"Shut up," He snaps at Moriarty, half stepping toward him. "You shut the hell up."

The former soldier's jacket jumps with the twitch of the wings he's hidden beneath, an attempt to flair them with his aggression sedated by the fabric. The sensation is odd enough to snap him back into himself, the rise of Sherlock in the corner of his eye drawing his attention back. He meets Sherlock's gaze, his own wide with shock, fury, and disbelief. But not fear. Something hurt. It felt like a great, crushing weight was settled on his chest, threatening to crack his ribs - whether it was to crunch them inward like a collision or out like an autopsy, he wasn't sure. The connection lasted all of a few seconds before John drew in a slow stabilizing breath and nodded too. His eyes briefly flickered in the direction of Moriarty, then met Sherlock's again, a silent question.

"Doctor, these men are going to need sutures," He prompts Adele, "And this one a bed. I'll watch them."

James physically flinches at John's order to be quiet, cowing away against the wall as if it would provide some kind of cover for him.

With the soldier's occupation toward Sherlock, James turns big brown puppy dog eyes on Adele. He's shaking now, on the verge of absolutely loosing it and just breaking down to sob.

"Please, please don't leave me here with them." That was the last thing he wanted.

...She has definitely overlooked something crucial. Stepped right into the middle of a very tangled, virulent mess without any idea whatsoever. It makes her frustrated and ill in a way she hasn't endured since Unger; the pit of her stomach ice cold and clenching at the tension between these three men. Answers. That is what she needs more than anything right now, though she suspects she'll get none until the two New Feathers are separated and even then it's unlikely. No way to know who or what it is she is dealing with, she opts for observation. Until Arthur steps towards the injured man.

Habit and obligation have her turning, standing between them. She couldn't do much, not if he and the taller one truly wanted this man dead. But she would not abide murder. She considers his words a moment, looks back to the hysterical man in the corner, then back up to Arthur. The weeping hysteria was terribly familiar, an echo of nights she would much rather forget. Her fists clench, she swallows, pushing the memory away. Even with that ragged uncertainty, Adele makes the second choice of the night.

God willing, it will be the correct one. "...forgive me if I am reluctant to leave the two of you with him."

At first, when his eyes first meet John's, Sherlock's wings still. They fold down against his back slightly, almost calm. But he reads the look in the gaze at him, and he breaths. His expression doesn't change, but the feathered things on his back...

They start to stretch, and the one remembers its injury and shudders badly, folding in again. The other shortens its extension to mimic its fellow. Both wavered as his features remained impassive. There's no times for questions now, no time for explanations. They've been there before... but a lot has happened since then. He has to hope that he can still rely on silence when silence is called for.

"One would expect a surgeon to be smarter. Then again, if a criminalist can be a stunning example of idiocy, I suppose the medical world must have its equivalents." If this woman would protect James Moriarty... she invited whatever trouble came to her. He was too tired, too injured, and too furious at having come so close only to be denied... If he weren't injured... if he didn't feel like his legs might give out from under him at any moment...

Maybe he'd go through her to get to Moriarty.

He looked at John and sounded, for a moment, like the man had just suggested they go to a coffee house he wasn't fond of. "Somewhere else, perhaps."

John's jaw worked silently, though the grinding of his teeth resounded loudly in his own head. But when the woman stepped between him and James Moriarty, his posture changed, shoulders slumping back. Not relaxing, but a defeat, an admission. She'd chosen her side and decided the course of action for them. Sherlock might have been willing to bat her aside, but John will not. He knows her justification, respects her bravery for standing up to two men who are clearly aggressive, but he can't help hating her good intentions and bad judgement.

"See to him yourself, then," He tells her, a voice dark with reluctance. If there had been time, he might have tried an explanation, something to convince her, but Sherlock is bleeding out and his wing has been abused to the point where John will make the sacrifice - her health for his best friend's. "Get him out of here. Now."

Sherlock's wings. Christ, he must be miserable - the telltale signs are everywhere, from his mess on the wall and the way he shakes; the way he has comprimised on what he's allowed to do to his archnemesis when not even death had not stopped him before. Another time, another place. They would set it aside for now and work on other concerns. Moriarty would find out quickly that he didn't have far to run.

That said, John moved toward Sherlock, extending his arm toward the man not unlike someone trying to collect their pet after a scrap with the neighbor's, cautious but familiar. He'd lead the man off to a bed if they could make it, a chair if not.

James remains placid and quiet against the wall, avoiding eye contact with Sherlock and John and instead focusing on other things.

"It doesn't hurt that much now." He offered lamely, referring to the cut in his head. When, it did hurt, he just didn't want to be a burden. And didn't really want to be in the same room as them for much longer.

Adele has, quite pointedly, put up with worse verbal abuse. Being called an idiot doesn't make her blink, let alone cause her to bristle. Whatever the reason, she'd learn later. After the men were treated. She took a moment to observe the other two men, to ensure they wouldn't attempt anything, before she kneels down at the less hysterical man's side. She rests a hand on his elbow, one to his head, inspecting the cut. "It will hurt less once it is treated. Stand."

Curt, more than she should be, really, but Adele doesn't care to remain her much longer. Once this man, whoever he is, stands she shall walk him out and to the next examination room over. She'll have to return for his journal- if she was to work on him she had no intention of explaining this place at the same time.

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[ written ] Useless fillerpost like a baws until the rp progresses a few minutes

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