originallutece | ic contact;

Depends.

[ but that's a joke, more or less. a stand-in for name it. ]

You're busy. I hardly begrudge you that.

[Though a petty part of her wants him close anyway, despite the fact others need him.]

But . . . if you've the inclination, if you're somewhere where you can . . . I'd appreciate you talking. A story from home, or-- god, I don't know. Anything.

But I'd like to think of something that isn't my situation right now.

[ ah. it's earnest, almost painfully so. John's not used to asking for help, and he's not used to being acquainted with anyone who'll ask, either. and it's not that Rosalind doesn't fit that mold - she does. which is why the request feels so much like something he shouldn't have heard, a window to a vulnerability that has and incredibly limited audience.

he nods, realises she can't see him, and clears his throat instead. ]

I was a detective at home, before I came here, did I tell you that?

[ he assumes he's told far more people than he actually has, so it begs asking. ]

You haven't, no. Good grief. Doctor, army boy, detective. I'm starting to feel some competition; there's only room for one polymath in this universe.

[The words are right; the tone isn't. Rosalind says all that with a false sort of cheer, but settles in.]

I didn't take you for the mystery type.

[ the tone John takes on is warm, temporarily banishing any trace of the world outside from the world inside this cupboard. talking about home will help him just as much as it'll help her. maybe she knows. maybe that's part of the plan. ]

Freelance mystery type, no less.

Accidental career path. I fell into it after the army - shot to the shoulder invalided me home, and I ended up living with a barmy idiot who turns out to be the world's only consulting detective. He knows because he invented the job.

[She laughs softly, and unlike the bright tone of before, that's far more genuine.]

There's nothing wrong with someone who invents their own job, John, so long as they're good at it. I would know.

Tell me, then: what does a consulting detective do? Or-- no, let me guess. Let's see . . . a regular consultant is there to give professional advice, so . . . does he go around finding mysteries and solving them regardless of whether or not anyone asked him to? Or do the police hire him when they can't figure things out?

It's a bit of both.

[ John's grinning despite himself. it's nice to share Sherlock with someone who seems both comfortable with the idea of him and simultaneously happy to engage in light ribbing the likes of which John himself would be proud. ]

Now that he's made a name for himself, people also hire him independently of the police. [ ... on that note, ] We're quite popular now, actually. The Queen hired us once.

[On the one hand: Rosalind had met Queen Victoria once (although met is a fairly generous word; more like stood in a crowd and saw her at a distance, but it was at least a somewhat intimate crowd, and Victoria had probably heard her name mentioned a few times).

On the other hand . . . that's fairly impressive.]

Tell me what happened. Did you go to the palace? I assume the palace is still around.

It is. We did. They sent a helicopter to a field where I was skyping from a crimescene to pick me up. Sherlock turned up naked except for a sheet. He had a fight with his brother and a palace official over tea while we all discussed the dangers of a dominatrix in possession of some scandalous pictures. We stole an ashtray. It was a hell of a day.

[ sometimes John takes a look at his life from a distance and is forced to acknowledge just how widely away from anything he could ever expected it spiralled somewhere along the way.

maybe the stormdeath of the universe and his arrival here were the inevitable next step. who knows. ]

[There's a bit of a pause.]

The next time I discuss my home, John, and you look at me in that way you have, I'm going to remind you of this conversation.

[She considers that story, though, and then:]

I suppose there's always going to be scandal within the royal family, though the presence of a, ah, worker such as that is a bit surprising. But I don't see how your friend-- Sherlock?-- could have helped. It's really not much of a mystery, is it? Is that arse really yours, will the press even care, there's not much to solve.

Sherlock, yeah. And it turned out she was keeping them for insurance, and the royal family weren't too happy about the idea of leaving photographs of what I can only assume was their second in line's new wife with a woman who was well known for causing mischief. More to the point, Sherlock found the power play interesting. He almost didn't take the case until they told us she wasn't using the photos for blackmail.

[ and, because he certainly didn't miss that first comment and he certainly isn't going to let it slide that easily, ]

And you can remind me of this conversation all you like. Until I tell you a story about shooting lasers from my eyes in another universe while riding a dinosaur, yours is still weirder.

I have never once mentioned anything near as mad as all that. You sound like--

Mm. Well, never mind who you sound like.

[But she sounds like she's smiling. Grinning, in fact, which is a rare enough thing for her.

But oh, that's interesting . . . not the son, but the wife, hm? Perhaps that's only interesting to her because of how new all of that is, but still Rosalind finds it quietly delightful. It's nice to know there are worlds where things aren't quite so horrid about that kind of thing as hers.]

So? I assume he looked into it? Did he end up meeting with this mysterious dominatrix?

[ there's an edge of interest there, but for now John doesn't press it. they're having a good time. if there's something Rosalind would rather not talk about for now, he'll leave it for later.

besides, the next bit's just as unlikely as the bit that came before, and therefore just as fun to tell. ]

A couple of hours later, yeah. She advertised freely, so the address wasn't a secret. He went disguised as a vicar, had me punch him on the way to give the thing a bit more dimension and me an excuse to go in too and then rang the doorbell asking for help, told them he'd just been mugged and I'd seen the whole thing from a distance. Only when we got in there, she was completely naked. Knew we'd be coming and she did it to throw Sherlock off the scent. Which she did, for about five seconds.

I set fire to a magazine, set off the smoke alarm, Sherlock said that'd make her give away the location of the phone - something about a mother's first instinct in the event of an emergency being to look towards her child - and he was right.

[ a pause, a bit of a breath, he's just realised he's about to shoot himself in the foot again with the providing ammunition for later reminder's vein. he recounts the rest with an air of resignation. ]

Then a group of Americans ran down the stairs, threatened to kill the Woman and me unless Sherlock opened the safe with the phone in it, he managed it and a gun in the safe killed one of them. Again, an interesting day.

Edited 2018-03-25 01:03 (UTC)

[There's another significant little Pause, because she absolutely wants John to know she's storing all this for later. But then, dryly:]

At least now I know it'll take a fair bit more than dropping my skirts to get you to be taken by surprise.

And what was the end of this thrilling saga? Did you two manage to get the phone away from the woman and the Americans, or did it fall into their hands?

We got it. One American died by safe-bullet, Sherlock and Irene knocked the other two unconscious. Then Sherlock called the police by firing into the sky - that gets attention quickly in Belgravia, it's a nice area - and was promptly drugged by the Woman, who took the phone back and jumped out of a second storey window.

... I know, before you give me another meaningful couple of seconds of silence.

[ and, actually, ]

And believe me, I'd still be fairly surprised if you of all people decided to drop your skirts at random.

I hardly said at random.

[There's another smile in her voice.]

I rather like the sound of Irene, though. You're going to have to show me which pod is hers-- and Sherlock as well, but that goes without saying. So was that the end of it?

No. But the rest of it's bloody convoluted, and she— [ actually, it only just occurs to him now that John hadn't even thought to look for Irene in the statis chambers. because she's dead, isn't she. but so would the majority of people he's met here be, if linear time was to be abided by. so might he be, if chronology meant anything.

so she could be. up there. probably is, actually. Sherlock he's found, of course, found him in the first days. his sister. Mrs. Hudson, a few others by now. (that his parents might be up there somewhere is an uncomfortable afterthought.) but Irene? he'll have to look next time. despite everything, he'd liked her well enough.

the train of thought leads to a slightly long, inopportune pause before he comes back to his senses. right. middle of a sentence. okay. ]

She didn't get the happiest of endings. Sorry. [ John coughs out a little laugh, awkward. ] Don't think I picked the best story, actually, after all that.

You distracted me. That's more than enough.

[He distracted her completely, in fact, and Rosalind is still smiling as she stretches out on her bed.]

Interesting women rarely meet happy endings, I'm afraid. A sad fact of life.

[. . .]

I was going to tell you that you reminded me, in a very small way, of a man I knew in my old world. He reacted to anything new with scoffing disbelief, especially me. Fortunately, the similarities end there; you're far less insufferable than he was.

Well, good of you to say so.

[ and he can't really defend himself against that, although he thinks he's been rather good about the continuing slew of bollocks thrown their way from the outset. there's being perturbed by the new and there's being perturbed by drinkable fire-tossing and the concept of atomic displacement.

though he's glad he could help. and actually, after a moment, ]

I've got a casebook laying around somewhere. From home. I can bring it by when I come over, might make for a nice change between romance novels.

[ or it might be an embarrassing tome filled with quarrelling post-it notes the likes of which might as well lump it in with the same genre, but there we go. ]

I'd like that a lot.

[She pushes her fingers through her hair. Again she's tempted to demand he comes visit her now, but she bites it back.]

Are you doing something delicate? Only I'll tell you more of my world-- it seems only fair, after all-- but I don't want you to make some kind of incredulous noise while you're stitching someone up.

I'm hiding in a cupboard.

[ slightly sheepish, but there doesn't seem much of a need to lie about that one. ]

So I think you're alright.

[She laughs, surprised and delighted. There's a murmur from a female voice somewhere, and something a little lighter in her voice now. It's entirely possible Rosalind's dreaded nurse has hooked her up to an IV.]

Why are you in a cupboard!

[ haha, go away Rosalind. John does his best to sound indignant, quite possibly failing miserably. ]

So I can talk to you without half the hospital listening in! Problem?

Maybe.

[you go away.]

You didn't have a problem with that when I was lecturing you. You ought to have, that's far more valuable, especially since I haven't, mm, I haven't rewritten any of my books yet.

Ah-- that's something I could tell you, I wrote three books.

Only three?

[ he's teasing. writing books is bloody impressive, and he's no doubt they're filled to the brim with impossible theories that are actually very possible indeed which makes them all the more impressive. still: ]

Thing is, people switch off the second they hear science. So your theories are safe. You can re-write without fear of being called in for plagiarism.

Go on, then, what were they called?

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