[ Arriving in a new location without the slightest inclinations as to how one got there posed little more than an inconvenience to him, being that he was officially 'dead' to most of the world. If anything, it would serve the purpose of a much needed distraction from his career in London, and offer him the opportunity to contemplate rebuilding his ruined reputation.
Although the slaphappy stupour was mildly unpleasant, the current environment provided much excitement for the detective's insatiable curiousity. Row after row of brightly coloured booths and throngs of people clad in far too little clothing to be publicly acceptable passed him by, some leering at the bright-eyed man as he ambled by. Thoughts concentrated. Hazy uncertainty dissipated.
There were beads in his hand.
Beads along with a list of what the beads represented, single words which were not foreign to Sherlock but foreign in the context of the situation. Some of them were easily recognisable as sexual words, but others, like 'age-play' and 'watersports' were foreign to him, and as his eyes glanced over the list, his lips moved to form the words, desperately searching for their meaning. For all of his expertise regarding the world of logical analysis, Sherlock found himself at a loss.
He kept moving. Moving because he didn't recognise anyone, (which was a good thing.) and he didn't recognise the location said carnaval du plaisir was in either. It wasn't England; he would know if it was England, would be able to identify the county by the formation of clouds, the general temperature and wind speeds, the demographics of any location within the county at any time. Africa was ruled out almost immediately as even in the most temperate zones of the country, the humidity would have been completely different, as would South America. He highly doubted that such a collection of people would have congregated in the Antarctic, not to mention the supplies necessary to maintain a demonstration like this would bankrupt most first-world nations. Asia was a slightly more likely possibility, but once more, the incredibly varied demographics led him to believe that was another unlikely possibility. America, regardless of the state or city within it, would never allow for such a lewd display of provocative acts to be performed so publicly, and Canada's foliage was very different to what was visible here. Which left him with Mexico, the Caribbean, Continental Europe, and Australia, the first two being far too sweltering even in the winter months to be the location of this area. Continental Europe was more likely with its generously liberal moralities, but even the most exhibitionist of countries within the EU wouldn't allow for a fair which condoned public fornication between man and animal, as it seemed, nor would Australia allow for carnal relations between adults and children.
Sherlock winced and averted his eyes from the display. Which was the opportune moment for his eyes to catch the glimmer of a man he'd thought dead he saw you die blood leaking out of your skull tracing patterns into the cracks on the roof and for his eyes to slam shut.
Not possible.
Eyes slid open.
Of course he found a way out. Of course it was all planned, the entire forcing of Sherlock's hand (or more accurately, his feet) to kill himself, the entire operation was a fix. For all of his painstaking precision with the planning, Sherlock had been bested again by his adversary. It occurred to the detective after a few moments of enraged contemplation that his teeth were bit hard into his lower lip, and the abrasive taste of iron was gracing his tongue.
He exhaled a sigh. And walked, allow his feet to betray him once more as he approached the man with obsidian eyes and all the grace of the devil, until he was just a few feet behind him. Fingered the beads presented to him before and watched them roll between his fingers, little glimmers of colour fading between his digits. ]
The perfect place for a man of your tastes. Or lack thereof.
[ Why aren't you dead? Why are you here, why isn't the back of your skull a big, gaping hole? I saw you die. All words are bit back with an impassive glance, eyes fixed on Moriarty as Sherlock strolled around in front of his mirror, his id.
The hand holding the beads extended, dropping beads of all colours, as well as the list, into Moriarty's palm. ]
You'll have more of a use for these than I will.
[ And just like that, he turns, and tries to walk away. Only, he can't. His feet are literally stuck to the ground beneath his feet, because all he wants to do is turn around and strike that man down, press fingers to his throat and watch the life escape him again, for good.
But that's not logical. That's not rational. It's not how he functions. So he breathes, closes his eyes, and lifts his chin, turning back around to face Jim, willing away his chronic indecision, and opens his eyes again.
Your move, Jim. says the inklings of a smirk beginning to form upon his lips. ]
dis wuz wat i wuz writing OK
Although the slaphappy stupour was mildly unpleasant, the current environment provided much excitement for the detective's insatiable curiousity. Row after row of brightly coloured booths and throngs of people clad in far too little clothing to be publicly acceptable passed him by, some leering at the bright-eyed man as he ambled by. Thoughts concentrated. Hazy uncertainty dissipated.
There were beads in his hand.
Beads along with a list of what the beads represented, single words which were not foreign to Sherlock but foreign in the context of the situation. Some of them were easily recognisable as sexual words, but others, like 'age-play' and 'watersports' were foreign to him, and as his eyes glanced over the list, his lips moved to form the words, desperately searching for their meaning. For all of his expertise regarding the world of logical analysis, Sherlock found himself at a loss.
He kept moving. Moving because he didn't recognise anyone, (which was a good thing.) and he didn't recognise the location said carnaval du plaisir was in either. It wasn't England; he would know if it was England, would be able to identify the county by the formation of clouds, the general temperature and wind speeds, the demographics of any location within the county at any time. Africa was ruled out almost immediately as even in the most temperate zones of the country, the humidity would have been completely different, as would South America. He highly doubted that such a collection of people would have congregated in the Antarctic, not to mention the supplies necessary to maintain a demonstration like this would bankrupt most first-world nations. Asia was a slightly more likely possibility, but once more, the incredibly varied demographics led him to believe that was another unlikely possibility. America, regardless of the state or city within it, would never allow for such a lewd display of provocative acts to be performed so publicly, and Canada's foliage was very different to what was visible here. Which left him with Mexico, the Caribbean, Continental Europe, and Australia, the first two being far too sweltering even in the winter months to be the location of this area. Continental Europe was more likely with its generously liberal moralities, but even the most exhibitionist of countries within the EU wouldn't allow for a fair which condoned public fornication between man and animal, as it seemed, nor would Australia allow for carnal relations between adults and children.
Sherlock winced and averted his eyes from the display. Which was the opportune moment for his eyes to catch the glimmer of a man he'd thought dead he saw you die blood leaking out of your skull tracing patterns into the cracks on the roof and for his eyes to slam shut.
Not possible.
Eyes slid open.
Of course he found a way out. Of course it was all planned, the entire forcing of Sherlock's hand (or more accurately, his feet) to kill himself, the entire operation was a fix. For all of his painstaking precision with the planning, Sherlock had been bested again by his adversary. It occurred to the detective after a few moments of enraged contemplation that his teeth were bit hard into his lower lip, and the abrasive taste of iron was gracing his tongue.
He exhaled a sigh. And walked, allow his feet to betray him once more as he approached the man with obsidian eyes and all the grace of the devil, until he was just a few feet behind him. Fingered the beads presented to him before and watched them roll between his fingers, little glimmers of colour fading between his digits. ]
The perfect place for a man of your tastes. Or lack thereof.
[ Why aren't you dead? Why are you here, why isn't the back of your skull a big, gaping hole? I saw you die. All words are bit back with an impassive glance, eyes fixed on Moriarty as Sherlock strolled around in front of his mirror, his id.
The hand holding the beads extended, dropping beads of all colours, as well as the list, into Moriarty's palm. ]
You'll have more of a use for these than I will.
[ And just like that, he turns, and tries to walk away. Only, he can't. His feet are literally stuck to the ground beneath his feet, because all he wants to do is turn around and strike that man down, press fingers to his throat and watch the life escape him again, for good.
But that's not logical. That's not rational. It's not how he functions. So he breathes, closes his eyes, and lifts his chin, turning back around to face Jim, willing away his chronic indecision, and opens his eyes again.
Your move, Jim. says the inklings of a smirk beginning to form upon his lips. ]