Sherlock Holmes (Ruler) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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shinytoybox2019-05-22 10:16 pm
improbablenotimpossible) wrote in shinytoybox2019-05-22 10:16 pmEntry tags:
improbablenotimpossible) wrote in shinytoybox2019-05-22 10:16 pm
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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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[He considered, and decided James would figure it out eventually, and there really wasn't much of a point]
And yes, I am - Arthur Gray.
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[He takes another drink, noting there's only a sip or so left.]
As for myself, I'm asking those close to me to use 'James'. There's just something about the name I like.
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It wouldn't be the last time they meet, not with the game they're playing. The Spider was not the remote spinner of webs, but the leaping hunter, but also on occasion the lurker inside a trap, drawing someone in before snapping them up.
He was careful, always so careful - a false front, crimes covering crimes, sometimes vanishing like a phantom, other times leaving evidence pointing towards another criminal trying to worm their way into his territory or made too much trouble, drawing too much attention near his havens.
Sometimes James wasn't called in at all, and it was disappointing, but when he was - he'd always watch from some remote place, to see him search and question, uncovering what he had hidden. Sometimes it gone as far as him finding one of his safe houses, which Gray would have stripped clean of the presence of any signs of his enterprise by the time police would arrive, leaving only bare rooms and wiped prints.
But much like the drugs, it wasn't enough to quell the screaming - it would be mutable for a while before roaring back louder and louder, taking more to make it silent again. As he upped the dosage, he also increased the complexity of his work, and the severity of it.
Some small part of him hated this, hated the thing he became, but the rest of him was too well-honed at this art, too dipped in blood and shadow to stop. He was constantly uncovering hidden things, forbidden things, loathsome knowledge was knowledge that appeased that hunger. Sometimes his hands were stained with blood when he wrest something new, and he noticed he was growing numb to the sight.
Gray knew that there was no happy ending for this game, but long as he kept playing - a worse one would be avoided, or so he tells himself. Though he could sense the change in James' demeanor as of late.
And the air around him just thrummed with a new kind of tension as he slips once more to that flat]
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But then - as if his eyes had forcibly been opened - he saw what they were doing to the world, to London.
And he knew they had to be stopped, no matter what.
He had played for too long - it only made sense, as Sherlock was the 'force' of the Beast, the driving intelligence behind them while he was their fangs - been too complacent. And he knew, without a doubt, the destruction they would bring if they were unchecked.
(Let it happen, his instincts whispered, but he forced it down)
So as Sherlock slips into his flat - the door purposefully unlocked, knowing the other man can't resist showing his face again, the pattern of their games familiar by now - James is waiting in a chair at his desk, facing towards the door to the study as Sherlock walks in.
His eyes are like ice as he speaks, his voice neutral.]
...The Game is over, Sherlock.
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(It would make it stop, it would make the screaming stop)
As he stood in the flat, the ice in the other man's eyes, the building tension. The declaration wasn't of the 'I know your tricks' variety.
There's a finality, especially the usage of that name]
Over...?
[His voice was cool, but he had been steadily growing cooler in expression and voice over the months, only growing animate when James confront him. But even as he questioned cool, he felt it - that hot flash of rage wanting to crawl out, indignant that their game was being declared over from the beast who had been fed by their play.
yet his shoulders dropped as if in relief]
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[He doesn't miss a single moment - the shoulders dropping, the faint flash of rage in his eyes. Of course, the Beast would be angry that the game was over, but -
It had to be done. For the sake of humanity, for those dear humans he loved so much. ]
...Monday, you and your gang will be caught by Scotland Yard. There will be no escape, nor any miraculous ways to wiggle out of it.
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And there will be no persuading you?
[He asked, his voice quiet, already his mind was turning, replaying their encounters, now seeing the small threads being drawn out, entwined so he would have no hope but to get trapped. There was a strange thrill, to be outmaneuvered in such a fashion, wanting to pick at James' mind, unraveling the threads, to learn his process.
But that will not happen, not when the detective declared the end of this game]
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He nods, slowly.]
..Yes.
We can no longer continue like this - not if we want London - no, England - to keep standing.
One of us - cannot be in this world anymore, Sherlock. You should know that.
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A rare, impulsive thought bubbled up - to tackle James right then and there, putting his hands around the man's windpipe, to see how it would look, to squeeze the life out of him to feel the authority pulse under him again.
Then he shook his head.
No. Not like that.]
I know. But you are aware with this end, that you are opening yourself up to your own destruction?
[Either death by the hand of one of his men, or some less kindly members of the Yard taking James' silence on their game as his being an accessory after the fact. Or... or... the beast in him coils and hiss like the humans they love, the Beast could not stand the thought of perishing before it could fulfill it's purpose in life.
It can't end here, it will end but not quietly]
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[His eyes - are piercing, staring directly at his other half, his other self. The other half of the Beast, the man who had come to rule the dark side of London with his wits and intelligence, staining his hands with blood in pursuit of knowledge.
How would it be if they were reversed? He can't help but wonder - would he be standing there, having finally revealed himself? Would they be as close to destroying everything as they were now?
...It's not worth thinking about, he decides after a few moments.]
I'm no stranger to destruction, Sherlock. I see it as a needed sacrifice, and nothing more.
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The nightmares and lingering doubt where just those, stray thoughts not allowed to dwell in his head to add to the cacophony - he had enough noise in his head and enough reasons to not sleep]
Then - there is no changing this course. I'm afraid that you will not live to see your victory.
[He slowly shook his head and turns to leave]
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[He doesn't stop the man from turning around to leave - after all, this was it. The prelude to their final separation, the ending that had lied in front of them the entire time.
He'll expect attempts on his life, of course. But the two of them simply could not exist together on this stage at the same time, and one of them must exit the play permanently.
And, in the end -
James left for the continent, along with Watson - the man had insisted, despite his (admittedly weak) protests, and most of the gang was quickly apprehended as they traveled in Europe.
All...except for two, of course.
And when he stepped foot onto the soil where the falls were, he knew. There was an inexorable pull on his soul, something that tugged and told him that this was where it would all come to an end.
And on that gray, miserable day...Watson was called away, an obvious distraction, yet...he was glad. Even if he felt nothing beyond the base fondness for humans for the man, he didn't want him to get wrapped up in this - in the moment where a monster split into two ended itself.
Standing there, he finished the note for the doctor and secured it carefully, trusting he'd find it before the winds carried it away - and turned to face the path down towards safety, waiting for that one man to come.]
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[That was what the man said once he walked up, while outwardly he appeared as expressionless and as calm as ever, the tension in his frame is more noticeable, more taut the closer they came together. Moran was nowhere in sight, but a sharpshooter probably made himself well hidden.]
I cleared my agenda, and no doubt you wrapped everything up on your end. Now whatever happens, we will have nothing to hold us back. I will hold nothing back now.
[No guns, no stick, but with each step closer, right into James' personal space, his fingers curled, a grab for his tie, a feint to distract from a vicious kick? No, he pounced upon the man like the spider that his other half often compared him to]
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[He doesn't say anything as Sherlock walks closer, though he's obviously just as tense - and when he's leapt upon, he lashes out with his hands, trying to punch the other man in the face even as he's caught, grunting and trying to push him towards the ledge.
Even in this struggle - there's that odd Joy, that odd excitement as they jostle and fight, a light coming to his eyes joyfully.]
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There was joy to their dance, but not quite like this - even as they're trying to kill each other. His eyes widening, as if not wanting to miss a second of the light in James' eyes. His feet planted themselves as he yanks at the tie to throw the other man off-balance, a grin spreading upon his lips as he tightens it, turning the fashion accessory into an impromptu noose.
This - this risky, reckless fight, neither of them are likely to survive at this rate.
Yet - he was fine with the specter of his own death.]
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The slippery path was enough to send him entirely off balance, going to his knees if not for the tie - automatically rising his hands to the band of fabric as his airways were immediately cut off, making a choking noise that could be heard over the roar of the falls.
But that light is still in his eyes though he's still not quite smiling, even as he struggles for breath and reaches out again, trying to knock the other man's legs out from under him.]
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