EVENT HORIZON - DAY THREE

[inferis]

[Well, things sure aren't fun for you guys right now, are they? And to make matters worse, some of you have become completely corrupted by the ship, and you've got some crazy new ideas in your heads.

Anyone not corrupted isn't doing that hot either. Not only do you have to deal with your new crazy-face buddies, but you have to deal with your own terrible hallucinations coming at you when you least expect them, and they want you to do terrible, awful things]

[[OOC: No sections! Feel free to make your own | DAY THREE OOC POST | PLOT HUB]]

Comments

[workaphilic]

[Sherlock's mind is reaching its limit. It's run itself ragged just trying to keep itself together, and is stuttering and stumbling to process everything. Each corner is a new hallucination: Lestrade, disappointed and disbelieving; Mycroft, lamenting the choice to drag his troublesome little brother out of the gutter; Moriarty, lunging, laughing, killing.

The only one that stays consistent is John, trailing after him wherever he goes. The vast majority of the little mental energy Sherlock has left is going to ignoring him, the cold expression, the dead eyes, the shouted (and justified) accusations.

Moriarty's killed John once or twice. But still, every time Sherlock checks, he's there.

It's exhausting, and yet Sherlock still oscillates wildly between silent and still to riled with agitation, swaying on his feet, shouting at nothing. It's the latter right now, while he drowns out Moriarty's cackles.]

Don't tell me you've run out of new material! Such a disappointment, Paradisa. Come on, come on! I'm getting bored!

[ensorceler]

[ Shouting at nothing, that is, until Anne's there. Her gait is unsteady, stopping only for a moment when her eyes find him, before she advances again. Her green dress has been shredded in places, ripped at by an animal's teeth for the keenest observer, with singe marks and blood splattered on the fabric, her skin, her tangled hair.

She looks every bit the madwoman, but he is hardly in the position to judge. ]

You claim you are not entertained. You seek pleasure? You will not find it here.

[workaphilic]

[He whirls at the new sound, and to say that the grin that splits his face is manic would be an understatement in the extreme.

For a moment, his eyes can't seem to find a place to land. They jump from her, to John, to Moriarty, and back again. Which ones are real and which ones aren't? At this point, it's getting more and more difficult to say.]

What shall I find, then? Are you here to show me?

[He steps back and gives her an over-exaggerated, mocking bow, his eyes never leaving hers.]

Your Majesty?

[ensorceler]

[ Her gaze seems to flinch at his mock bow, but she merely looks down and to the side, whispering something.

Sshh, sshh, go find Elizabeth. Sshh, sshh, child, go.

Then it's back to Sherlock, and she's slowly walking towards him again. ]

She will show you, and then you will understand, but it will not matter. I am only here to make sure you survive until then. You have not earned a clean death.

[workaphilic]

[He draws himself back up to full height, allowing himself to look down at her as she comes closer. The comment pulls his smile taut, and sets John shouting behind him.

"A clean death!" "Skull shattered on the pavement!" "Fake genius, Sherlock Holmes!"

(In his head? Yes, probably, definitely, maybe.)

His mind struggles to focus on her face. His tone grows detached and wondering.]

No. Perhaps I haven't.

[A twitch of a new smirk.]

But when have I ever readily accepted my due? The higher-ups tell me I'm a troublemaker. Wouldn't want her to feel left out of the fun.

[ensorceler]

You will have eternity with her...do not worry. Mary is very poetic with her punishments. You will be entertained.

[ She stops just in front of him, not letting his height intimidate her any more than it did the last time, but she is already trembling; there is already terror nestled behind the hatred she manages to summon in her gaze for him. Not for him, but what he stands for.

Rebellion. ]

I require only an hour of your time.

[workaphilic]

[His eyebrows go up. He sways slightly, in and out of her space.]

Just the one? Either you're very efficient or I'm not half as troublesome as I'd hoped I was.

[ensorceler]

Then feel free to offer more trouble, and I will take more of your time. But there is not much left.

[ Anne holds the pen in her hand tightly. It is not as efficient as a knife, but it will do, and she moves to attempt to strike his side with it, hoping to wind him so that she can kick out his knees.

Of course, she is no fighter. Only a livid mother. ]

[workaphilic]

[He is a fighter, but a scrambled one, and both the blow and the strength behind it manage to catch him off guard. But once is enough, and his reflexes light up with his fight-or-flight response, fueled by the anger and fear circling in his head.

He leans into the motion, even as he doubles over, and reaches to seize the wrist of the hand with the pen, to twist it back (both to keep the weapon away from him and to try and unbalance her as she has him). Just to get time and space, even if only a moment and an inch, to recover himself.]

[ensorceler]

[ But Anne's mind is going a mile a minute, even as he manages to wrench her arm back just as she moves to try to kick out his legs. The result catches her completely off balance, and it's only secods before she could fall, really. She wastes no time, ignoring the pain like a rabid dog might, and her eyes indeed seem to flash.

Or no, maybe that's the wire she's let slide from her sleeve so that she can attempt to snag it around his wrist. It's a rushed attempt, there's no telling if she succeeded until she actually falls, and she will try to yank him down with her with a frantic strength, and she prays to God he bleeds. ]

[workaphilic]

[On some level he feels it, sharp pain in his forearm as wire cuts through flesh, hot blood sticky and slippery on his hands. His balance, already upset, gets worse with the unevenly distributed force, and he goes down. Even hitting the floor, the force of it reverberating through his arms, his elbows, his knees, registers as far away, secondary.

He struggles for purchase, for dominance, if not to pin her than at least to keep himself from vulnerability. His fighting style might be warped by rage and madness, but the basics are there; leave no openings on yourself, and exploit all openings in your enemy.]

Clever! Very clever. Thought of everything, have you? [Her face is blurring. He can still hear Moriarty laughing. He refuses to be beaten.] I'm very clever, too.

[ensorceler]

[ She screams in a rage at his attempt to subdue her even more, and she still fights to yank at his arm with the wire even more, struggling to wrap her legs around his middle so that she can grapple him beneath her. ]

[workaphilic]

[He braces himself against the floor; he's bigger than her, and heavier, and this is a time to use that to his advantage. But there's something to be said for desperation -- that thing with the wire has got to stop, pain screaming through the back of his mind towards the front.

Unfortunately, canting his weight back and scrambling for purchase against the wire means her other hand is free, and he's less stable against the ground than he was a moment ago.]

[ensorceler]

[ His attempt to free himself causes her grip on the wire to weaken, but not entirely, and she yells in frustration, left hand flying up to slam against his temple, and that? That his her thumb aiming right for his eye, wow stop her before you become a cyclops, Sherlock. ]

You think you see all, you cur?! We will find if blindness brings you wisdom, not that it will save you!

[workaphilic]

[He snarls and twists to wrench her arm by the elbow, to slam it back down against the floor.]

Are you so afraid? Of me, of my seeing you for what you really are? Of my knowing what I've known from the start -- that you're nothing?

[ensorceler]

[ The force of it makes her cry out, a screech that would rival a banshee's, her other hand struggling to wrench his off of her. ]

No! I am greater than any man who claims to have built me! Far greater than you!