thetube | Test Drive Meme: Feb/March 2016

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Welcome to the Underground test drive meme! This is where you can try out the AU version of your character, start some potential CR and get a feel for the world of the game. Choose your character's species, read up on the available factions and you're ready to go. Put your character's name in your subject line when you post, tag out, and have fun!

Note to current players: Activity in this meme counts as game canon! So you can use it for activity check. If you end up playing anything that you can't or don't want to use as game canon, it's fine to ignore it. (In that case you shouldn't submit it for activity check.)

Here are some prompts to inspire you:

1) COMMON PEOPLE. What do normal Londoners do every day anyway? Sometimes you just want to blend in with everyone else. Make friends with humans. Talk about the weather. Go on, try it.

2) PENTHOUSE SUITE. But wait. Maybe you want to see how the other half live. The elite of the elite. You've been lucky enough to be asked to a meeting, or a luncheon, or a date. Find out what the most powerful people in London are really like.

3) GET OUT YOU FILTH. Supernatural prejudice is a regrettable fact of life in London. It doesn't matter what you are, there's someone out there who hates you because of it. They'll shun you, heckle you, even hunt you down and kill you. Of course, you're probably not immune to a few prejudices yourself.

4) SPEED DATING. Oh god. Why did you sign up to this. You should have known it was a bad idea when someone mentioned it was supernatural speed dating. Help.

5) THE REAL UNDERGROUND. Down in the darkest corners of the Tube, there are supernatural vagrants of all kinds, especially vampires. That friendly busker may well be a fae. That girl waiting for the next train is a ghost. Once you've seen it, you can't escape from it.

6) IN THE SUPERMARKET. On the other hand, you never know what you might find just walking around your local supermarket. You haven't forgotten how to do normal things like groceries, right?

7) A CURSED EXISTENCE. Maybe you literally are cursed. Maybe you just feel like it sometimes. There are things you can't do, weaknesses that normal humans aren't subject to, but they make everyday life in London that little bit more difficult. Try not to get too mad about it.

8) CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE. Anything goes.

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1. COMMON PEOPLE.

_{[ Sherlock spends a large portion of his time people watching. It's a comfort more than anything else - this is something he'd done as a human to keep his senses sharp, to assess and observe the countless lives that pass through the streets of London each and every day. These days Sherlock doesn't really need to keep those old observation skills active, because his senses can tell him more than his observations ever could, but a combination of vampiric instinct and logical deduction has given him quite the edge over other, 'stronger' vampires. He can talk his way out of almost anything. It's quite the gift.

He's settled himself in a quaint little café just outside of Kings Cross station, eyes scanning each and every person sitting beside him - mostly human, a few fae (and he ignores them, because he's not in the mood to start a fight when he's busy play pretending at being human, just like they are), a few shapeshifters and another vampire scouting out their next meal.

Sherlock hasn't eaten for a while, and the coffee he's bought isn't doing the trick at all. It's too sweet and the pot it was poured out of probably hasn't been washed in years; he leaves it to the side, and he folds his hands together in his lap as he watches people spill out of the train station every few minutes; he can hear their heartbeats as they erratically try to get wherever it is they're going - late for meetings, for dates, for friends.

People are so predictable. ]}

4. SPEED DATING (because I'm a terrible person)

_{[ He's been tracking the man that murdered six children in cold blood for the last three months. Finally, he's shown his face, and he's going to pick his next mark tonight - he tends to go for single mothers, and... well, there's plenty here tonight.

Obviously he doesn't expect to end up sitting opposite him, but he'll be in close enough proximity to watch, and that's really all he needs.

So if he seems a little bit distracted as he talks about his hobbies and his ideal date, it's probably because the killer's doing something interesting. Or it might be because he got slightly distracted by the frankly overwhelming sound of pulses everywhere, which is always somewhat dizzying when he hasn't eaten for a week or so.

He'll push through it. It's fine. ]}

8. WILDCARD

_{[ Choose your own adventure! ]}

The rules have gotten so rigid lately about hunting, haven't they? But the prey makes it so easy.

[The accent is nothing but posh. More than that, it's old school posh. The kind that went out of basic use in the Victorian era, perhaps a bit later. Not that most would know, but an older mind and a keen ear could hear it. The pale skin wasn't indicative of much by itself, but by sound, there was a distinct lack of a pulse for the Commissioner of Police of the Metropolitan.

Of course, he'd heard the exact same thing when he'd approached. So he knew he was speaking to one of his own.]

And they're so busy now. So many worries. Keeps their hearts racing.

Mm, so easy it borders on tedious.

_{[ Which is perhaps Sherlock's biggest problem: he's been alive for too long, the thrill of the hunt is no more thrilling than picking up a pint of milk from the local Tesco Express. What was once taboo has become common place, his disassociation from the brutality of his lifestyle has coloured his every move; he's become crueller, harsher, less forgiving because it's what the world has forced him to be. He was rejected by humanity long before he became supernatural - now it's just more obvious.

It irritated him to realise that people, when frightened, all reacted in the same sort of way. He tried different techniques - he surprised them, he seduced them, he pulled them in and played with them but it never resulted in any significant results. When people are frightened, they all have that same basic fear response; the way their eyes dilate the second they realise they've backed themselves up into a corner, the way they beg for their life or offer goods and services in return for their continued existence.

The basic principal of nature vs nurture meant that the results always varied from person to person, but Sherlock was only ever interested in their final moments, because it's amazing to see how quickly people's priorities shift - he liked it when they accepted their death, because it meant he was going to get a genuine response, one that was personalised and interesting; Sherlock would see them for who and what they were. Ironically, he's seen more of humanity since becoming a monster than he ever did when he himself was human.

There's only so many games one can play until they start to become routine, devolving into something mind numbing as opposed to thrilling. The experiments quickly started to dry up, but Sherlock still had to eat.

He's just going through the motions at this point; dipping a toe into the human world, keeping up appearances with local law enforcement. Solving cases and dispensing a little personalised justice - a vampire, yes, but one that only really eats the rude (except, of course, when he doesn't).

Sherlock inclines his head towards Lord Coward, quietly sifting through the limited amount of information he had available on the vampire beside him. The accent alone tells Sherlock more than enough - this vampire is old, his accent too refined and his words too crisp to be any younger than a century, and that small piece of data influences the way Sherlock scans his surroundings (two exits, one blocked and the other leading out into an alleyway through the back - time it right, he could disappear into the oncoming crowds dispersing from their journey home), although he doesn't feel immediately threatened and he chooses to hold his position - calm, aloof, vaguely interested in the conversation. Always aware, though, always watching, despite the casual way in which he holds himself.

The power of being underestimated will always land in his favour. ]}

I don't know how they do it. That endless repetition of 9-5 must be absolutely mind numbing.

Edited 2016-03-14 19:15 (UTC)

[These days John stays at the clinic so late that it's already pitch dark by the time he locks up and makes his way home. If he hurries he can catch the Tube but sometimes it's not possible. Since the streets have never exactly been safe at night, he's taken to bringing his service revolver with him, tucked snugly against the small of his back as he cuts through the empty streets.

Or not so empty. There's the sounds of a scuffle ahead, one John's not sure he wants to get mixed up in. Probably just drunk kids, up to mischief.

Still, a shout of pain makes him hesitate, then groan aloud at his own stupid conscience as he pulls the gun from his waistband and goes to investigate.]

_{[ Sherlock had been minding his own business, fingers and thumbs busily tapping out a rhythm against the keypad of his phone as he turns into a somewhat unsavoury part of London. He's never been particularly frightened by the prospect of wandering alone in the dark - after all, he's just as fierce if not more than the monsters lurking down dark alleyways.

But he hadn't been paying attention. He sent the last of his texts off, satisfied with the turnout the day's sleuthing returned and only vaguely aware of his immediate surroundings. For the most part, Sherlock is otherwise engaged, too busy concentrating on connecting each and every piece of evidence together. There were glaring omissions that just didn't make sense, puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit their mark and it was frustrating, because he just can't place what he's missing--

The sound of footsteps shatters his reverie; rudely pulled away from his thoughts, his perception immediately shifts and he's aware of all too much all too quickly. He has, effectively, found himself in another faction's territory, and he is most definitely not alone. He scans the immediate area, trying to assess the amount of trouble he's about to be in - one human, one fae and one meta human; three separate pulses, all reacting to adrenaline.

He straightens up, pockets his phone and huffs out a melodramatic sigh. ]}

I'm a bit busy, actually, so if you could just turn around go back to whatever hole you crawled out of, that'd just be fantastic.

_{[ This, as it turns out, was apparently the wrong thing to say. Sherlock can determine that based on how well the fight ended up going for him (which essentially meant that he got beaten by cheap tricks and the promise of an easy meal).

The human was a distraction; she bled Sherlock of all of his energy, and just when he became overtaken by a certain sort of blood lust, the fae struck. He barely got a decent look at him before he felt it- an insistent push at his stomach followed by an intense, burning sensation (he must have cried out, heard his voice against the still of the night - shock, definitely shock, a quiet little 'oh' as he sways on his feet, calculating the best direction and angle to fall - backwards, definitely backwards). The knife twists and it gives a whole new meaning to the word pain - hot and cold all at once, prickling and intense like tiny shards of glass being embedded into his skin, nerves firing off electric shock after electric shock. It drives him to distraction, thoughts stuttering to a halt under the pressure of the knife; his fangs retract and he moves on instinct, jolting forwards and biting down hard wherever he lands. He's rewarded with blood, but it's not helping, not in the way he needs it to. Oh, it helps with the pain, that euphoric high that overtakes him immediately, but it loosens his grip on his prey and suddenly the fae (and their human companion) escapes, leaving the knife firmly planted inside Sherlock's stomach.

London fades in and out of focus as he grips the handle of the knife and yanks it out with as much strength as he can muster; the cry of pain Sherlock makes is involuntary and entirely embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as being stabbed by a steak knife. ]}

A st- A steak knife? Really?

_{[ Mycroft will never let him hear the end of this. ]}

[Whatever the reason for the scuffle, two on one is never fair odds and John isn't one to let a stranger get jumped if he can prevent it. Unfortunately it looks like he might be too late. One of the shadowed figures strikes out with a weapon (though at this distance it's hard to tell what it is) and the man cries out, folding around something embedded in his stomach.

And then the guy starts to...go nuts and start biting the one who'd stabbed him, which John supposes is just desserts really but not likely to be helpful in this situation.

So he fires a warning shot, which seems to scatter everyone not impaled through the stomach, and then rushes over to the man on the ground.]

Oh, no don't do that- [He barely gets it out before the stranger is tugging the--is that a steak knife?--out of his body.]

Shit. [John breathes the curse, shaking his head. First rule of embedded objects in your body, you don't pull them out willy-nilly unless you like your insides on your outside.] Okay, you should've let that alone but fine, let's have a look.

[He's finally close enough to get a good look at the man, who is pale as fuck and looking about the way John would expect someone stabbed in the chest to look. He also gets a look at the discarded steak knife which is serrated and long and jesus christ that's going to be a mess to heal but fine. He can handle this.]

Don't worry, I'm a doctor.

Edited 2016-03-17 01:30 (UTC)

_{[ The gunshot seems further away than it actually is. He hears footsteps, a voice - it's all difficult to place; he hadn't meant to drink fae blood, it was all instinct and now he has to sit through the consequences of that (although that ability to walk in sunlight without being burnt to a crisp would have been handy earlier today, but the blood will no doubt wear off long before dawn comes). The blood may have helped with the pain, but it offered nothing by way of sustenance, and Sherlock knows that he'll need to eat soon in order to heal properly.

There's a voice and Sherlock tries to concentrate on it, his need to heal leaving his senses dulled and his mind sluggish. He watches warily as a human comes into focus and he tries to concentrate on the words he's using, on the cadence of his voice and the way his body language repeatedly disarms the idea of a threat in Sherlock's mind, so he lets him close and he tries to wrangle his thoughts together, tries to kick start his brain into working the way he knows it should.

When he pulled the knife out, he heard someone talking. Didn't quite get the words, he was too busy falling down in agony, but he definitely heard something, and he knows that that voice belongs to this human. No, not human, meta-human, he'd picked his pulse up before the fight.

He can see why fae blood is highly addictive. He can also see why some vampires hunt them for sport and why fae in particular prefer not to deal with his kind much at all. It's just euphoria, but he wonders how much of that is the fae blood mixing in with the adrenaline from the fight, because he feels fantastic (aside from the blood soaked shirt and the wound that's slowly but surely healing, barely visible from the outside but still dealing plenty of damage from the inside. It's uncomfortable, itchy, and he's too weak to really do anything other than lie there and think about his life choices).

Frowning, slightly disoriented and dimly aware of fresh blood is very rapidly drying into an incredibly expensive shirt, Sherlock attempts to sit up in order to regain some semblance of control over his ridiculous life (or lack thereof). ]}

Couldn't leave it alone.

_{[ His first words to this stranger and they're condescending, if half-hearted. How could he heal with a knife poking into his stomach? Hardly conducive to a full recovery, at least for a vampire. But then, this stranger would hardly know what species he is, because all he's seen is a struggle that ended in a stabbing.

The fae didn't even deign to take his money. Honestly he can't wait for this whole thing to be over so he can laugh over the incident in which he got surprised and rushed with a steak knife. There have been many incidents over the years, but none quite so ridiculous as this. ]}

A meta-human doctor. Well, you must be very good at your job.

_{[ It's not a threat. It isn't much of anything, really - just Sherlock being Sherlock, always trying to connect the dots even when he's weak and he's barely functioning. It's even said with a smile! ]}

[There's enough blood everywhere that John can't tell which belongs to the injured man in front of him and which was left behind by the attacker he...bit. The coppery stink of it fills the air, choking thick and familiar in a way that makes his own blood pump faster through his veins in a rush of adrenaline. Only the gloomy chill of London air marks the scene as different from ones he's played out a hundred times before, patching up a downed soldier in the dusty streets of Fallujah.

The stranger is still moving around, which is equal parts encouraging and a very bad idea. John puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him from sitting up.]

Hold still, you aren't going to do yourself any favours by wriggling around here.

[He keeps his voice stern but his hands gentle, easing aside the heavy coat which hopefully took most of the impact of the blade. It's not until he's unbuttoning the man's shirt to get a better look that he registers the words. How the hell did he know about John's...well, about John. They'd never met before, he's pretty certain. Has someone been opening their mouth about what goes on at the clinic? Some former patient with loose lips. That could cause trouble, and he'll agonize over that later but for now there's a wounded man to deal with.]

I've no idea what you're talking about but yes, I am good at my job. Which is lucky for you, since you seemed to have gotten yourself stabbed tonight. What did they want, anyway? You really shouldn't walk through this side of London all dressed up like this. You'll make yourself a target for any hard-up mugger or junkie.

[Because he can't help but notice the very fine shirt he's ripping open, although it's not so fine now with the blood stains and the ragged hole where the knife went through.

Surprisingly enough, when he feels for the wound with his fingers he doesn't find as much damage as he expected. The man's skin is alarmingly cool though. Enough to tell that he's probably going into shock.]

What's your name, hm? [If the man decides to faint on him, John's probably not going to bring him 'round by shouting 'hey you' in his ear.]

_{[ John's pulse is drowning everything else out: it's all he can do to hone in on the sound, use it to pinpoint John's location without actively pursuing him (a wary sort of habit that he adopts when he is unsure of his situation and the people in it, despite the casual front he puts on. He is weak and he is vulnerable, and he knows that there are people that wouldn't hesitate to pounce on him should they happen upon him). He knows that they're not in the safest of places; this is not his territory and vampires have been killed for less.

Cruelly, however, he is disrupted from his thoughts the second John places his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Even through this many layers his response is immediate, the way he pulls a shaky breath in John's pulse practically reverberates through him and Sherlock has to close his eyes, has to actively concentrate and lock down his initial responses - instinct telling him to replenish the blood lost, to heal and to feed. He'd hate to think what skin to skin contact would do, he's not exactly at his best and bloodlust is a very real and very intoxicating beast.

It John had really considered his surroundings, had really considered the odd way in which Sherlock responded, he might have kept on walking. London has been occupied by creatures that go bump in the night for some time now - to act under the assumption that Sherlock is human could be quite detrimental to his health (not to mention confusing - he'll more than likely be considerably surprised once he discovers a distinct lack of pulse.) Still, Sherlock will keep his condition quiet for a little while longer yet, because it's working in his favour and the lack of fear in the air is a welcome change, especially when he himself feels so skittish. It helps that Sherlock actively encourages the idea of him being human - it makes things easier, people react differently when they're aware a predator is in the room.

Blending in has become second nature by this point: he holds a steady breathing pattern despite the fact that he doesn't need that air, he keeps eating despite the fact that none of it sustains him, he keeps sleeping even though he doesn't exactly need it to feel refreshed. The staff at his local Tesco Express know him by sight and they see him buying milk, bread, soup. A quiet routine that proves his humanity, at least in the eyes of society.

So he's careful as he observes, slowly trying to piece small details together from the smallest of actions and the briefest of words - he hasn't been given much to go on, and his attention span is waning. He sees that John is unsettled by Sherlock's knowledge, but it comes with being a vampire of his age and stature - he sees more than he'll ever let on.

He tries to pull away from that insistent hand holding him down, tries once again to get up (although he doesn't put too much effort into it, doesn't bother wasting precious energy in throwing John off because he's all too aware of needing every scrap he's got). That physical connection has forced him realise just how hungry he is, and just how viable an option the man hovering over him is (but that hardly seems fair, considering he's just trying to help. Being drained of all of your blood doesn't exactly seem like a fitting reward when you've shown nothing but kindness to a complete stranger). But there's something about this doctor that Sherlock can't quite place - he seems ordinary enough: in fact, he's practically unassuming with the way in which he holds himself (underneath the military training, of course; tanned face, neck, hands, haircut short out of habit and he's obviously acclimatised to violence judging by the glib way in which he barged into a knife fight with guns blazing). It's clear that there's more than meets the eye, and Sherlock has never been especially good about letting a good puzzle go to waste. He can't quite help himself when he speaks next, curiosity getting the better of him. He lets John ask his questions, but Sherlock breezes past them with little to no substance in favour of gaining information for himself. ]}

Being stabbed is practically a greeting in some boroughs. Not many get shot, though; you gave them quite a fright. _{[ Well, the combination of being drained and shot at definitely proved a worthwhile scaring tactic. This doctor might just be worth keeping around, but he's not entirely sure what that would entail. ]} I'm not dressed up like anything _{[ And there's a slight indignant there, because if John had seen some of the other vampires and their fashion choices, he'd be swallowing his words. He's not sure when ruffles became a 'thing' with Hollywood, but every fledgling vampire seems to go through a phase of trying to get some gothic name to stick whilst running around in intensely embarrassing lounge coats. He's seen far too many fat, balding Lestats to take the whole phenomena seriously. ]} Afghanistan or Iraq? _{[ Because the question John's posed is difficult to answer and a subject change is definitely in order. There are many reasons as to why a fae would want a vampire dead - whether it was a personal feud or one that he's continuing based upon the bonds of his clan, Sherlock couldn't be sure. It all happened too quickly, although he'd be willing to begrudgingly guess that it's the latter, given the fact that Sherlock had never seen him before.

At least, it wasn't personal. It is now.

The doctor's hands hover above his stomach (the heat is radiating off of him, his pulse is maddeningly loud and it's everywhere, slick with adrenaline and it's the most intoxicating thing he's smelled for weeks. He lets himself indulge with his sense of smell alone, just for a second, one painfully delicious second, in order to get it out of his system before it's too late. Always in preparation for the inevitable) before he's back to pushing it down and forcing it all to be buried deep inside the recesses of his mind; locked up and cast aside, at least until he's able to examine it all in greater detail. His interest regarding this man has been piqued, and he'll be damned if he's going to let it all go to waste because his lust for blood overtook his mental faculties.

Skin touches skin and Sherlock jolts with it (and this was the inevitable, the promise of physical touch in order to locate the wound - he saw it coming, but it still takes him by surprise. He wasn't aware that John's pulse could ever become any louder than it already was, but now it's in his head as well as against his skin and his instincts are getting increasingly tired of being ignored), a quiet growl involuntarily escaping his throat because he's too close for comfort, the wound barely millimetres away from those prying fingers. He feels far too exposed, lying in the middle of an unguarded and ill-protected alleyway; the promise of an ambush weighs heavily against his mind, and even as he tries to cover that growl with an ill-timed cough, his eyes are searching out the nearest exit. He pulls himself away, physically digging his fingernails into the ground and yanking himself backwards; it's not as graceful as he's used to, his movements jagged and stiff. He claws his way up the wall, determined to stand even if it means he sways ominously the second he's on his feet.

It's not just for his own safety any more. He needs blood, and it's getting impossible to ignore these cravings. He won't heal properly if he doesn't regain what he lost. ]}

Steady on, I consider myself married to my work. _{[ A vague attempt at diffusing this tension, because Sherlock can feel it mounting. He looks down at himself, disappointed to find that not only did the blood dye what should be pristine white an eerie red, but it's been cut and slashed into to such an extent that it's uselessly hanging down his front. Defiantly: ]} It's Sherlock Holmes, and you've ruined my shirt.

_{[ He doesn't wait for a response. Using the wall to brace on, Sherlock starts walking certain with the knowledge that his new found doctor companion's empathy will force him to follow, probably alongside a protest or two about Sherlock moving when he shouldn't or something equally as dull. ]}

Edited 2016-03-19 00:20 (UTC)

[Skittish thing, isn't he? Although he supposes he would be too, with a stranger if he'd just been jumped in an alley and then stabbed. So John tries to project himself as harmless and well meaning, while still competent, his gun quickly tucked back out of sight into the waistband of his trousers. See? Perfectly safe, nothing to worry about.

John even shows his hands, palms up, in a gesture of goodwill. But then the stubborn fool decides to hoist himself up by way of the brick and lurch down the street like it's possible to just saunter away from a gut wound. Jesus christ, he would be dealing with a crazy one.]

No, now don't do that. You're going to make my job that much more difficult if you're moving around like a berk--sit down. [A hint of the Captain in that order there. But he's ducking under the arm the man...Sherlock, has got braced against the wall, supporting the lanky figure from behind in case he decides to flop down ungracefully to the pavement.

John glances down at the wound fretfully, expecting to see a fresh gloss of blood now from the exertion of getting up. Strangely enough, only the tacky, darker circle of dried blood seems to show.]

Look, I'm trying to help you. If you'd just hold still for a minute I could see to that wound.

[The 'Afghanistan or Iraq' remark is faintly alarming but he isn't going to be dealing with any of that until his patient is seen to. Then he can worry about whether or not he's being watched or followed or checked up on by the government, or some other paranoid theory he hasn't entertained yet.]

You really do need to sit down, Mr. Holmes. I've seen corpses with better colour than you've got right now in your cheeks.

No, don't put that away.

_{[ Because in the doctor's haste to appear non-threatening, he fails to realise the danger they're currently in. Not only has Sherlock just initiated a turf war, he's bitten a fey - this will almost certainly come back to haunt him (unless, of course, he can find the fey first. That option seems considerably better than any others).

Sherlock rolls his eyes pointedly as the meta-human continually tries to get him to stop - really, this is hardly his first knife fight and he'd appreciate a little respect, actually, because he's managed to stay alive this long which is certainly no mean feat. Most vampires his age... well, they tend to disappear before long, wary of technology and frightened by the comings and goings of civilian life. Sherlock? Oh, he'd always seen himself as a man born into the wrong time, so as the years cycled past he clung onto every new invention, every new discovery and every new technological advancement (and in some cases he even stumbled blindly into a few of his own inventions).

Still, it's not as though his new found friend has any idea of Sherlock's true condition, so he can't fault him too much. That absolutely doesn't stop him from being irritated, though, and he'll show it with a forced sigh and a very pointed glare.

He does pause with the order though, back straightening up as he presses his hand harder into the wall. ]}

There's that military training.

_{[ And not only does it suggest that he was more than a simple private, but the way it was said alongside that tell tell instinctual reaction to order once his kindly doctor routine fell on flat ears suggests to Sherlock that he was a reasonably high ranking officer. He finds himself tempted to ask Afghanistan or Iraq once again, but if it went ignored the first time, it'll probably go ignored again. No matter, he'll find out.

The second John is sneaking up under his arm is yet another moment in which Sherlock is forced to pause, the sudden closeness of a human sending his senses wild with the desire to feed, but he abstains, concentrates on the wall; brick by brick, tracing the pattern of the cement under his fingers (latch onto anything else, anything else). He swallows, he steadies himself and he moves forward, just keep moving forward. ]}

Do you have a name, or should I continue referring to you as 'pesky meta-human'? Don't worry about the wound, it'll be fine.

_{[ Because that is essentially your nickname at this moment in time, doctor. And with that last comment, Sherlock is forced to double over in pain as laughter rings out, because oh, that's just hilarious but god does he regret it, the pain is intense and it shoots a white hot jolt of electricity through his veins. The laughter is quickly followed by a groan of pain and another stop (dimly aware that they're not making near enough progress. He's so slow, so mortal and it's just frustrating at this point). ]}

I'd wager you've felt warmer corpses, too.

Edited 2016-03-23 18:00 (UTC)

sherlock holmes | bbc's sherlock | vampire

Common People

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8 - I DO WHAT I WANT

WOW SUCH A REBEL /swoons

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the tl;dr came back i'm sorry

oh god why

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4 because i like a good joke

u r a good joke

tru

tbh the best joke

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common people;

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4 no one can STOP ME

omfg worst speed dating partner ever. he kept trying to lick the dust off of my coat????

drools

bites