[The night was foggy, as was common in London at this time of year - and as he walked back to his apartment with Watson at his side, James was lost in thought.
They'd just finished with a rather interesting case - one that had given him plenty to think about. The case of a portrait in a museum going missing, though that had merely been a cover for the bigger crime - that is, of the forgeries of quite a few of the pieces hanging up, having been replaced during the theft, and the real ones taken. It spoke of a larger organization - something he had been wondering about for some time.
There was someone stirring London's criminal element, someone so very deviously clever as to use crimes to cover up larger ones, and use misleading ends to their own gain. As he walked, he talked to his friend - to Watson, that pure, simple soul that he so very appreciated and cherished - about it.
Ultimately, in that chat (which he had to tell the man that no, the suspect was not of African decent), he gave a name to the shadowy figure he could almost grasp in the end.
Anansi - the spider trickster god. Like a hunting spider, this person struck out and was clever, using misdirection and tricks to cover his tracks before striking.
'You're rather like a spider yourself, James.'
That remark had startled him for a moment, though the doctor continued and said it was due to how cautious he was, like an orb-weaver in her web. He'd laughed - and agreed, also noting the glint in Watson's eye that meant this exchange would be going down in his memoirs, and gently ribbing the man about it.
At no time at all, he saw Watson off at his front door - with a smile and telling him to give his regards to Mary - and stepped inside. It wasn't long before he was in a nightdress, his hair down after working all the gel out of it, sitting before the fire in his armchair with a glass of brandy and his cat purring away on his lap. A simple night to cap off a successful day seemed to be in store, much like how he had been since the moment he was 'born.'
At the very least, he's relaxed enough to let certain things slip his notice...like the fact that he forgot to lock his front door.]
[Anansi as James knew him as was on the prowl. It was a complicated game, as intricate as a spun web, he struck and melted back into the shadow.
This wasn't the life he expected when he left those years ago, but fate and skill lead him first to investigate the gangs, and then taking them over (they're willing to self-destruct before they make peace or withdraw as he remembered, if they all listen to one man, they'll be forced to do what he wants), focusing and redirecting their skills, the planning made that voice in the back of his head quieter.
It was almost disturbing how easily he settled into the role, sometimes the small part of him that remembered who he was whispering disapprovingly of his sins, but the other voice tends to drown that out easily. And the other thing, he had noticed slowly, he found it harder and harder to hold onto emotions, things flitting in and out like mist, only moments of intimacy or playing cat and mouse with a clever detective made him feel anything remotely human. Otherwise, he was the cunning spider, calculating and cool.
The thoughts were forced back as he quietly opens the door, getting near this flat just brought a strange feeling to his chest - one he would recognize in hindsight as regret and sorrow. The crackle of the fire, the glass, the rumbling loud purr - he knew where James was.
Otherwise, it really hadn't changed... He decided to just sit at the table, to see how long it would take for the man to notice, if it weren't for the cat suddenly hissing 'Who are you? Why are you in my territory?!' at him]
[Of course, he hadn't noticed - and it took his cat to alert him to the man's presence, blinking and setting his glass aside as his pet jumped out of his arms and towards where she had smelled the intruder. Carefully grabbing a pistol and placing it in his robe's pocket, he followed her -
And stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes going wide as he just...stared.
He knew who this was - there was no way he wouldn't, even though his memories of that day were muddled with pain and confusion. He knows those intense green eyes...the same ones that had stared at him, beginning to say Something before changing his mind and walking out of his life forever.
James' mouth went dry, and before he knew what he was doing - a name came forth hoarsely, a name that is supposed to be His, but...
...in reality, had always belonged to the person in front of him, just like this house, just like James himself -]
[He looks up at the man, those green eyes flickering over the man, his expression quiet and neutral. While clearly the same man, there were some marked differences: he was paler, a little more gaunt, his hair now hanging loosely, giving him a more boyish look, like an unusually tall waif. But there's minor traces of a harder life, a brow having a small notch from a nearly invisible thin scar, and a flinty edge behind those eyes.
When 'return' came from the man's lips, the man seem to straighten up a little, again feeling that faint tinge of pain in his chest. Yes, this once was his home - before he made that choice, back when he still had strong, intense emotions. While in retrospect, it was an incredibly irrational decision, but some part of him still felt like it was the right one.
Slowly his eyes went to the bulge in the robe's pocket, then back up to James, brows raised in a knowing fashion]
So I have. I am not here to replace you or chase you out.
[The minor differences didn't escape him, after the shock had passed - and there's a short moment as he scrutinizes the other man. Pale and gaunt...probably hadn't eaten properly in a while, and that scar...
Without a word, he suddenly turns around and leaves - though his cat stays, keeping an eye on the intruder - but soon comes back with some modest fare of mackerel and crackers, approaching the table and setting it in front of Sherlock before sitting down in the chair opposite him. Soon enough, Abby also comes nearby, to jump in his lap and glare at the intruder from a safe place, ears back.]
...You look as if you haven't eaten in days. It's not much, but at least eat a little before you collapse.
[It almost sounds like grumbling, but...he's relaxed a little at hearing that he's not there to replace him, the tension having eased out of his body almost instantly.]
[His brows shot up in surprise as the man left and then returned with food. It had been a while, he generally forgets to eat when he starts spinning a plan - partaking only when it reached it's conclusion. Laudanum and his seven-percent solution did much to suppress his appetite along with that damnable voice when the little crumbs of secrets he took wasn't enough to quell it.]
...Thank you.
[The cat's open suspicion caused a flicker of a frown across his face before he sets back to neutral. Why did he come anyways? Curiosity, the other half of him that cut through the illusions he wove, but it seems that as of yet, James didn't know. But curiosity shouldn't have been enough to make the risky gambit - he didn't quite know why, there are many things about this house, about that man that twists something inside him and he knew it wasn't because of the authority in the other man's chest, seeming to beckon him if he stares at it too long.]
You're looking well, this suits you.
[He does eat the offered food, slow and in a delicate fashion]
[...He didn't answer the question. Filing that away, he's silent for a moment - rising just to get his drink, causing Abby to give a meow of protest - and silently pours a glass for his other half as well, setting it in front of him as he gives the other a level stare.]
I suppose it does - then again, it was the career we'd settled on before...
[He trails off, then takes a drink. Sherlock shouldn't need prompting to know what he's referring to.]
And? What of you? I imagine it's been somewhat dangerous, owing to that scar on your brow.
[He accepts the glass, noting how the other man noticed his lack of answer. He'll figure it out soon enough, his gloved fingers curling around the glass. At the mention of the scar, he gestures to it with a free hand]
Oh this? Ah, a would be from a run in with someone trying to silence me.
[Sherlock wasn't lying, he had been nosing around about one of the Honorable Lord's homes for wayward children and got a knife to the face for the trouble]
I tried my hand at journalism, unfortunately my stories were not the sort they want to publish.
A reporter, hm? I'm not surprised, considering your...aptitude for sticking your nose into things.
[He sighs, petting Abby - who's become quieter, though still distrustful of the stranger in her territory, eyes watching his every movement (and to see if he leaves any fish behind that she can snatch up).
Still...It's been years since then, and only now does he show up? No.
Deep in his soul, he knows why Sherlock is here, and there's no use in dancing around it.]
...Still. I assume you know about what happened at the museum earlier, then?
Unfortunately that didn't last - too many people have ways of keeping things out of print.
[Sherlock gave a long sigh, well but that was that life, his is a different track. His current one while not what he had set out to do did it's job, redirecting energies and keeping himself alive in a sense. And there was something enjoyable in executing his plots.]
Hm - rumors have certainly been flying about, they wouldn't bring you in for a run of the mill theft.
Hm, I'd assume so. After all, people never want their secrets uncovered - despite how much it deserves to be brought to light.
[...he's not certain yet - but hearing about that, well.
He knows.
After all, the extent of the crime had not been published yet, and he could have been in there for many different reasons other than theft, as the man in front of him very well knows.
So - he smiles.]
Oh? I never said it was theft, Sherlock. For all you know, I could have been investigating many other things.
...Unless, of course, you had some reason to believe it was a much grander theft?
[He realized just too late he had slipped out something he shouldn't. Perhaps he intended to on some level? Well, that's not important - it'll put an interesting edge if James did make the connections.]
Well, logically if there was a murder, the scene around the museum would be much busier, much more chaotic - gossip would've spread if there was a body involved. Theft is the likely crime in this case, and it would not have been a simple smash and grab affair. Even Scotland Yard could handle something like that.
[All which is true, and logical enough, but while some people will be satisfied by that answer, his other half - if he was properly his other half - would dig, or try to confirm his suspicions later on]
[Reasonable, yes - yet the gleam in his blue eyes should speak for him. The gleam of connecting, of figuring things out, biding his time to hold in the knowledge contained within.]
Ah, yes - That does make sense, doesn't it? Well then - in your opinion, what kind of crime would have occurred?
[He saw the gleam, it's one that was in his own eyes so often. He leans in, food finished, but drink mostly untouched now. There's a kind of thrum the air, he could almost feel his heart pulsing in his chest. The closeness just reminded him keenly of what they were, what they could've been.]
Well - let's see - a different sort of theft, vandalism, the assault upon a guard, the latter is less likely. Given the location, and that vandalism tends not to be very subtle - I would surmise it is that 'grander sort of theft' that you spoke of.
[His breath catches, excitement buzzing in the back of his head replacing the faint, distant whispers. Sherlock felt hyper-aware of his tongue, pressing against his teeth and the roof his mouth, wanting to elucidate, to answer but he'd tip his hand, he wouldn't want to have the answers just handed over, unless it's by the unintentional slip up by his opponent]
Archival theft is one possibility, there are scores of works that are not available to the public eye, but it's no less valuable.
[He knew the answer, he wanted to declare it, the instinct of the detective hasn't died in him, no matter how hard he tried to bury it. His vision seem to swim for the moment, almost seeing things crawling at the edge of a vision. Then the man shook his head, suddenly sitting up, blinking slowly as if he had awaken from an opium-induced dream.
What was he doing? He almost blurted the truth, as if the person who robbed the museum was a different person entirely that he was trying to track down! And if he hadn't come out of it - something else, something regretful may have happened]
it was like the tension, the spell between them...just broke, blinking and sitting upright himself.
Ah...what was he thinking? That - had been too dangerous, and he winces suddenly, his hand rising up to rub fitfully at his chest, just over his heart, where the Authority was branded into his flesh.]
...I suppose I merely wanted your thoughts on the matter. Now that I have them - well.
[He stops rubbing, suddenly locking eyes with Sherlock - and smiling.]
Such a shame that there's no evidence, hm? At least, not enough to bring down the Spider pulling the strings behind it.
[His breath had quickened, the thread of dread lacing down his spine at what almost happened. Yet, despite being aware that coming here was a terrible idea on a logical stand point, there was a flutter of excitement stirring within as those eyes locked onto him, azure meeting peridot.
The game has changed, new rules will have to be learned and exploited, weaving around the webs that his other will lay out for him.]
Indeed, it would be difficult to bring justice to someone that leaves no trace.
[As if remembering, he takes a long sip of his drink]
[Games are never meant to last, they are by design meant to be just momentary distractions.
But it wouldn't hurt to push it a little more, to play another round.
To play, to dance, to weave and pounce, giving and taking.
(Snaring and Devouring)
His eyes slipped half-lidded, swirling the glass lightly]
Everyone does make mistakes it is part of existing - though while such flaws may expose a criminal, it does not always mean justice will be dealt to them before either time or the shadows of history takes them.
Indeed, Sherlock. We'll have to see if this criminal slips into the shadows, uncaught - or if they'll eventually be collared by Scotland Yard or a detective of some renown.
[He gives a smile, and then -
shrugs.]
Time will tell, but it is good to see you again. I'm surprised you're still in london, personally.
ROLESWAP plus with added theory
They'd just finished with a rather interesting case - one that had given him plenty to think about. The case of a portrait in a museum going missing, though that had merely been a cover for the bigger crime - that is, of the forgeries of quite a few of the pieces hanging up, having been replaced during the theft, and the real ones taken. It spoke of a larger organization - something he had been wondering about for some time.
There was someone stirring London's criminal element, someone so very deviously clever as to use crimes to cover up larger ones, and use misleading ends to their own gain. As he walked, he talked to his friend - to Watson, that pure, simple soul that he so very appreciated and cherished - about it.
Ultimately, in that chat (which he had to tell the man that no, the suspect was not of African decent), he gave a name to the shadowy figure he could almost grasp in the end.
Anansi - the spider trickster god. Like a hunting spider, this person struck out and was clever, using misdirection and tricks to cover his tracks before striking.
'You're rather like a spider yourself, James.'
That remark had startled him for a moment, though the doctor continued and said it was due to how cautious he was, like an orb-weaver in her web. He'd laughed - and agreed, also noting the glint in Watson's eye that meant this exchange would be going down in his memoirs, and gently ribbing the man about it.
At no time at all, he saw Watson off at his front door - with a smile and telling him to give his regards to Mary - and stepped inside. It wasn't long before he was in a nightdress, his hair down after working all the gel out of it, sitting before the fire in his armchair with a glass of brandy and his cat purring away on his lap. A simple night to cap off a successful day seemed to be in store, much like how he had been since the moment he was 'born.'
At the very least, he's relaxed enough to let certain things slip his notice...like the fact that he forgot to lock his front door.]
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This wasn't the life he expected when he left those years ago, but fate and skill lead him first to investigate the gangs, and then taking them over (they're willing to self-destruct before they make peace or withdraw as he remembered, if they all listen to one man, they'll be forced to do what he wants), focusing and redirecting their skills, the planning made that voice in the back of his head quieter.
It was almost disturbing how easily he settled into the role, sometimes the small part of him that remembered who he was whispering disapprovingly of his sins, but the other voice tends to drown that out easily. And the other thing, he had noticed slowly, he found it harder and harder to hold onto emotions, things flitting in and out like mist, only moments of intimacy or playing cat and mouse with a clever detective made him feel anything remotely human. Otherwise, he was the cunning spider, calculating and cool.
The thoughts were forced back as he quietly opens the door, getting near this flat just brought a strange feeling to his chest - one he would recognize in hindsight as regret and sorrow. The crackle of the fire, the glass, the rumbling loud purr - he knew where James was.
Otherwise, it really hadn't changed... He decided to just sit at the table, to see how long it would take for the man to notice, if it weren't for the cat suddenly hissing 'Who are you? Why are you in my territory?!' at him]
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[Of course, he hadn't noticed - and it took his cat to alert him to the man's presence, blinking and setting his glass aside as his pet jumped out of his arms and towards where she had smelled the intruder. Carefully grabbing a pistol and placing it in his robe's pocket, he followed her -
And stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes going wide as he just...stared.
He knew who this was - there was no way he wouldn't, even though his memories of that day were muddled with pain and confusion. He knows those intense green eyes...the same ones that had stared at him, beginning to say Something before changing his mind and walking out of his life forever.
James' mouth went dry, and before he knew what he was doing - a name came forth hoarsely, a name that is supposed to be His, but...
...in reality, had always belonged to the person in front of him, just like this house, just like James himself -]
...Sherlock...?
You've - You've returned.
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When 'return' came from the man's lips, the man seem to straighten up a little, again feeling that faint tinge of pain in his chest. Yes, this once was his home - before he made that choice, back when he still had strong, intense emotions. While in retrospect, it was an incredibly irrational decision, but some part of him still felt like it was the right one.
Slowly his eyes went to the bulge in the robe's pocket, then back up to James, brows raised in a knowing fashion]
So I have. I am not here to replace you or chase you out.
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Without a word, he suddenly turns around and leaves - though his cat stays, keeping an eye on the intruder - but soon comes back with some modest fare of mackerel and crackers, approaching the table and setting it in front of Sherlock before sitting down in the chair opposite him. Soon enough, Abby also comes nearby, to jump in his lap and glare at the intruder from a safe place, ears back.]
...You look as if you haven't eaten in days. It's not much, but at least eat a little before you collapse.
[It almost sounds like grumbling, but...he's relaxed a little at hearing that he's not there to replace him, the tension having eased out of his body almost instantly.]
I assume this isn't just a minor check up, then?
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...Thank you.
[The cat's open suspicion caused a flicker of a frown across his face before he sets back to neutral. Why did he come anyways? Curiosity, the other half of him that cut through the illusions he wove, but it seems that as of yet, James didn't know. But curiosity shouldn't have been enough to make the risky gambit - he didn't quite know why, there are many things about this house, about that man that twists something inside him and he knew it wasn't because of the authority in the other man's chest, seeming to beckon him if he stares at it too long.]
You're looking well, this suits you.
[He does eat the offered food, slow and in a delicate fashion]
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I suppose it does - then again, it was the career we'd settled on before...
[He trails off, then takes a drink. Sherlock shouldn't need prompting to know what he's referring to.]
And? What of you? I imagine it's been somewhat dangerous, owing to that scar on your brow.
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Oh this? Ah, a would be from a run in with someone trying to silence me.
[Sherlock wasn't lying, he had been nosing around about one of the Honorable Lord's homes for wayward children and got a knife to the face for the trouble]
I tried my hand at journalism, unfortunately my stories were not the sort they want to publish.
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[He sighs, petting Abby - who's become quieter, though still distrustful of the stranger in her territory, eyes watching his every movement (and to see if he leaves any fish behind that she can snatch up).
Still...It's been years since then, and only now does he show up? No.
Deep in his soul, he knows why Sherlock is here, and there's no use in dancing around it.]
...Still. I assume you know about what happened at the museum earlier, then?
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[Sherlock gave a long sigh, well but that was that life, his is a different track. His current one while not what he had set out to do did it's job, redirecting energies and keeping himself alive in a sense. And there was something enjoyable in executing his plots.]
Hm - rumors have certainly been flying about, they wouldn't bring you in for a run of the mill theft.
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[...he's not certain yet - but hearing about that, well.
He knows.
After all, the extent of the crime had not been published yet, and he could have been in there for many different reasons other than theft, as the man in front of him very well knows.
So - he smiles.]
Oh? I never said it was theft, Sherlock. For all you know, I could have been investigating many other things.
...Unless, of course, you had some reason to believe it was a much grander theft?
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Well, logically if there was a murder, the scene around the museum would be much busier, much more chaotic - gossip would've spread if there was a body involved. Theft is the likely crime in this case, and it would not have been a simple smash and grab affair. Even Scotland Yard could handle something like that.
[All which is true, and logical enough, but while some people will be satisfied by that answer, his other half - if he was properly his other half - would dig, or try to confirm his suspicions later on]
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Ah, yes - That does make sense, doesn't it? Well then - in your opinion, what kind of crime would have occurred?
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Well - let's see - a different sort of theft, vandalism, the assault upon a guard, the latter is less likely. Given the location, and that vandalism tends not to be very subtle - I would surmise it is that 'grander sort of theft' that you spoke of.
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Indeed! And what kind of grand theft do you suppose happened? What would be enough to have caught the eye of Sherlock Holmes?
[...For a moment, it was as if -
They were the same person, talking about a case to themselves.]
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Archival theft is one possibility, there are scores of works that are not available to the public eye, but it's no less valuable.
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What then, could it be?
[Leading him on - like he was teaching him, letting him come to the correct answer he'd learned, trembling almost faintly with that same excitement.
Though if Sherlock noticed, he might have felt those strands of web attaching to his face, pulling him in just the right way...]
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[He knew the answer, he wanted to declare it, the instinct of the detective hasn't died in him, no matter how hard he tried to bury it. His vision seem to swim for the moment, almost seeing things crawling at the edge of a vision. Then the man shook his head, suddenly sitting up, blinking slowly as if he had awaken from an opium-induced dream.
What was he doing? He almost blurted the truth, as if the person who robbed the museum was a different person entirely that he was trying to track down! And if he hadn't come out of it - something else, something regretful may have happened]
You're certainly angling for a specific answer.
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it was like the tension, the spell between them...just broke, blinking and sitting upright himself.
Ah...what was he thinking? That - had been too dangerous, and he winces suddenly, his hand rising up to rub fitfully at his chest, just over his heart, where the Authority was branded into his flesh.]
...I suppose I merely wanted your thoughts on the matter. Now that I have them - well.
[He stops rubbing, suddenly locking eyes with Sherlock - and smiling.]
Such a shame that there's no evidence, hm? At least, not enough to bring down the Spider pulling the strings behind it.
['I know.']
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The game has changed, new rules will have to be learned and exploited, weaving around the webs that his other will lay out for him.]
Indeed, it would be difficult to bring justice to someone that leaves no trace.
[As if remembering, he takes a long sip of his drink]
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['This is a bad idea', something deep inside him whispered.
Yet, like this, sitting at a table...
There was so much they could be, they could do. They could play a game all for them, dancing around the traps each other set.
Maybe...for a little while, it wouldn't be so bad. Until one or the other is inevitably trapped, strangled by those threads -
(The fate of a Beast like them, after all.)
He gives a loud yawn, before downing another swig of his drink.]
A criminal always does, somewhere along the line. Don't you agree?
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But it wouldn't hurt to push it a little more, to play another round.
To play, to dance, to weave and pounce, giving and taking.
(Snaring and Devouring)
His eyes slipped half-lidded, swirling the glass lightly]
Everyone does make mistakes it is part of existing - though while such flaws may expose a criminal, it does not always mean justice will be dealt to them before either time or the shadows of history takes them.
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[He gives a smile, and then -
shrugs.]
Time will tell, but it is good to see you again. I'm surprised you're still in london, personally.
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[A genuine smile actually crosses his lips at that, reaching into his eyes]
I had considered other places, but London seems to suit me better than anywhere else.
[Being around people was comforting in an odd way. There's so many thoughts and ideas flitting about, so many things to see and learn.]
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[He chuckles.]
It seems I'll have to keep slicking back my hair in order to keep people from mistaking us for the other.
...Speaking of, I take it you're using a different name now?
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