![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Test Drive Meme: The Overflow
PLEASE CONTINUE YOUR THREADS OVER AT THE LATEST OVERFLOW POST, THANK YOU.
Please note that all CR in this meme can be carried over when the game starts between characters that are accepted into the game.
Threads can also count towards third and first person samples on the application, just provide links.
Take a look at our OOC Meet and Greet post! Meet. Greet. Make friends. Have fun!
 THE OVERFLOW Since the last post is fast approaching 3k comments and getting laggy for some of our players, we have decided to go ahead and stick up the overflow post. Please continue your threads or start new ones here if you'd like. To make this easier on those continuing threads from the last meme, here's a handy form: Please remember to let your thread partners know you've bumped your threads over here as well! We started the meme early to give you plenty of room to do just that. With the City of Ariel grand opening only a month away, we are holding our first ever test drive meme. Tag in and see how your character would settle in the game. You're a fresh face in the city, newly processed, and arriving at a bustling time. The city is expanding and you are greeted first in the re-education center by your helpful counselors and then directed out of the building to a large festival. Be puzzled, make friends, have sex, or whatever you want! There are no restrictions on thread types played out here. Your first awareness that something has gone wrong comes during a groggy moment of semi-lucidity when you look around yourself and find that -- instead of wherever you remember being last -- you're in a chair, in a room with a man you don't recognize. He's sitting behind a desk whistling to himself and sorting paperwork. The whole atmosphere might remind you of a high school guidance counselor's office, only with far more comfortable chairs. You were brought to Ariel during a very special time! There's a large festival going on celebrating the new expansions to the city and everything is decked out for it. Everything is bustling and vibrant in the city today because of the celebrations. There are decorations up, food vendors set up all along the streets, kissing booths, games, and just about anything else you can imagine an event like this would have! The people of Ariel are out and about as well, some are in vibrant costumes and others are just checking out the sights. Some of the more exhibitionist types are even having a little more fun out in public than you may be used to seeing back home. As soon as the grogginess from your arrival passes, you are allowed to leave the re-education center and see it all for yourself. Upon exiting, you are even handed beads of various colors, several of each so you don't worry about running out. Each color has a special meaning listed below: pink - toys These are to aid you in making a connection with others. Show your interest in others and tell them exactly what you would like to do with them by sharing the beads. If you would rather take a different approach, feel free to walk around the festival and see what (or who) catches your eye. The point is to relax and get settled in your new home. | |
| TAG IN - Post your character's name, canon, and preferences. - Set up an opener in your comment or leave it blank. - Tag around and have fun! | USEFUL LINKS: [Premise] [Rules] [F.A.Q.] [Locations] [Local Citizens (NPC)] [Taken] [Wanted] [Reserves] [Application] [Main] [Logs] [OOC] |
Please note that all CR in this meme can be carried over when the game starts between characters that are accepted into the game.
Threads can also count towards third and first person samples on the application, just provide links.
Take a look at our OOC Meet and Greet post! Meet. Greet. Make friends. Have fun!
jim moriarty | sherlock bbc | ota
Really, this is all very...interesting. ]
no subject
It's through this scanning of the crowd that his eyes come to land on a man who seems to be taking a perverse interest in the activities, judging by the way he licks his lips. By now, Mello should be accustomed to seeing men and women alike participating in this city's version of mind control, but he still aims a look of disgust in the man's direction as he walks by, clearly unimpressed by his voyeurism.]
no subject
Have you been here long? [ A friendly façade, Moriarty knew well enough to keep his habits at bay, keep his anger and insanity and furious tension locked under a nearly sweet, innocent disguise. ]
no subject
Sweet and innocent bothers Mello, as he has been trained from childhood not to take anyone at face value. He knows nothing about this man, but he already feels inclined to dislike him.
It has been a little bit since Mello's reign as a mafia leader, but the response that immediately comes to mind is one he would have employed back then, a remark about the man's creepy, lip-licking behavior, and a graphic direction regarding where he could take his questions. It's an old habit from dealing with the underbelly of society — from being within the underbelly of society — and Mello considers blatant voyeurism as part of the scum found in such recesses.
But Mello is making an effort to fit in, to try and at least be reasonable for just long enough to get what he needs to know to leave. He schools his knee-jerk reaction in favor of forcing himself to relax just a little — still on guard, but without the stark abrasiveness for which he is known.
Mostly.]
Long enough.
[Mello senses a follow-up question — no one starts and ends with a question like that — so he doesn't forge on ahead, but he does will the man to hurry and get on with it so he can go back to more important matters.]
no subject
Long enough, oh, how nice. Don't suppose you'll tell me where this is, then.
[ Almost a hint of irritation in his voice - he dislikes playing games with people more dull than himself, and that bar is set rather high to begin with. Jim has his hands clasped behind his back, tilting his head forward, really, he's being more than polite. The only thing he desires from the younger man is an answer, and his tone is slightly unhinged, eyes still fixed, waiting for a response and growing more and more irate as time goes by. ]
Are you a resident here? [ A gesture towards the place around them. ] Likely not, I sincerely doubt you'd be so offended if that were the case - [ His expression devolves into a bit more than a sneer. ] - I really doubt you live here.
Not quite certain I'll get any information asking you, I can only imagine you know as much as I do.
no subject
Mello grins, now, a feral expression, responsive to that slightly unhinged tone, a sharklike desire to circle this man until he bleeds some more of his true colors out to the surface.]
You underestimate me.
[It's true, he isn't a resident, but he's been here long enough to have scouted out the place, and to have a few pieces of (albeit fragmented) knowledge. But whether or not he knows anything is beside the point. The point is, always, to act like you hold the cards, and to keep your hand hidden. And, most importantly, to try and throw off your opponent.
Mello advances and drops all irritation, his smirk fading with ease. Then he puts on a practiced, but very well-acted persona of an Ariel resident. He has seen enough of them to mirror the way they walk up to strangers and take control of personal space. He does not touch but he does get close enough to whisper in an acted, lewd tone.]
Maybe I just like playing hard to get.
[And then he touches — a hand on the man's waist, light but with enough intent, easing backwards into one of the gropes that Mello himself has unfortunately been subject to a few times by now.]
no subject
Do I?
[ His head inclines slightly, lips curling into what appears to be an interested look, eying him closely as he advances closer towards him. He's watching him, gazing over the man's scarred face, watching as the younger, thinner man comes in close, a hair's breadth away, and Jim feels his own face growing hot. Surprised.
Almost, at least.
Flint-coloured eyes drop down to Mello's hand that slips down his waist, sliding over cloth, pressing onto his backside. Jim responds in kind then, drawing forward and gripping the slender man by the waist, pulling him in quick, other hand grabbing at Mello's wrist and pulling that hand away. Gripping tight, not wishing to allow the man the chance to pull away. ]
Playing hard to get, oh, well then. [ His Irish-accented tone is airy, nearly playful. ] If I'd known that, I would've been more inclined to pursue you. [ He's gazing down at the man, simply holding onto his wrist, lips wide as he drops those dark eyes down the length of the other man's body. ]
no subject
Don't tell me you like it rough.
[He doesn't pull away — still playing the role, although now it's due to a mix of his pride as well as the game. He will not break just because he's being pulled in tighter, examined in such a way.]
And here I thought you seemed so nice.
[The tone is light, but there's just a hint of sarcasm in there.]
no subject
I like it all sorts of ways, [ He starts, his tone lilting softly, nearly dangerous as he leans closer, still just inches away from the younger man. ] Something tells me you wouldn't be too disappointed.
[ He let the man go, finally, letting loose his wrist. ] Isn't it funny, how wrong first impressions can be at times? [ Despite letting go of the other man, he makes no motion to move away from him, still quite close indeed. ] On the other hand, I can be quite nice. Incredibly so, in fact.
no subject
I don't know...
[He maintains his light tone, averting his eyes as though he's unsure of what he's being told, looking down at the ground and counting to himself before he looks back up, meeting the man's eyes.]
You don't seem like the type who can be trusted.
[At that, he lets the whole act drop, lifting his head a little higher, allowing his usual pride and confidence to surface once again. His eyes narrow and his expression hardens.]
But I'm sure your tastes are just insatiable.
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. ]
oh okay. that's good.
I don't know if that's how it works, darling. [ A smile, his voice low and singsongy, emphasizing the rise and fall of his slight Irish accent. He had only observed, had watched as couples joined and fornicated on the ground like dogs, knees dirt-stained and fingers digging into skin. Humans devolving to their basest of instincts, behaving more like bonobos - quick to suggestion. Something he could use to his advantage. Jim began to circle Sherlock, slowly, watching as the man dropped the beads in his palm, and he dangled them in the air. ] Are you telling me you're into this, Sherlock. [ The laughter in his voice was poorly-hidden, amusement seeping into his tone. He started counting off the beads, one by one by one by one. ] Pink. Toys. You know what those are, don't you? Ah ah ah - [ He tutted, over exaggerating a bit, wagging his finger in the air. ]
Not dollies, not teddies, no no, not those sort. They have them for sale over there, if you really are curious to try. I prefer the bigger ones myself. There's one nearly the size of a forearm, would you like me to use that on you?
[ And he continues on down the list, mocking Sherlock's discomfort, describing things in lewd detail as he flicks the beads down the strand. ] Oral, boring, I'm sure even you must have gotten someone off in your mouth once or twice in your life time. That John of yours, such a little pet, bet he eagerly tries to lick at you every time you sit down. [ Another flick, and he comes to the yellow beads. ] Watersports, love? [ A smile, stretching thin over teeth. ] I'd rather not do anything to get my suit dirty, but I certainly wouldn't mind laying a claim on you. [ Finally, halfway down he stops, staring at him. ]
You do realise this is what these are for.
[ Eyes are impassive, and his smile drops somewhat, nearly incredulous at Sherlock's expression, as he continues to tap out the beads. ] Expressing your interest in things. And you're giving them to me, how sweet. [ The strange thin smile turns somewhat saccharine, teeth biting down, licking at the back of his teeth with feigned interest. ] Doubt I could do this all in one day, truthfully. Could try, but I'd run out of stamina sooner or later.
[ Truthfully he wasn't interested. Well, that wasn't necessarily the case, when it came to Sherlock, Jim couldn't help but be interested, but the carnal acts, the beads, the lovely little things lined out in a row being presented to him… the physical stimulation that Sherlock surely hadn't meant to offer him was nothing compared to that brilliant mind of his, and Jim sought to wrap himself around it, to press fingertips into his grey matter and pull out Sherlock's thoughts, pluck them out one by one covered in viscera and fluid and blood and brain matter. He wished terribly to know just how Sherlock was reacting to being in such a place, and his eyes met Sherlock's, staring, unwavering. ]
no subject
Why aren't you dead?
Why aren't you dead?
Why aren't you dead?
Jim's flamboyance is drowned out by the pressing, far more disturbing notion that somehow he's alive, he's survived, and he's here with Sherlock, talking about toys or teddy bears and goodness only knows what. As the Irishman speaks, Sherlock can feel his teeth grinding together, jaw tight with every flighty word dropped from Jim's lips. As the other man circled him with all the intent of a vulture, Sherlock stared straight ahead and furrowed his brows, a crease forming between them as his mind whirled. The gun, it could have been loaded with blanks, could have been a trigger for a sound, could have had a blood bag attached to the back of his neck that would explode when the gun was fired, could have, might have, should have...
...and then he's speaking about John. Sherlock allows his brows to relax, an air of nonchalance once more sweeping over his features. Or at least the closest thing to nonchalance he can manage, which is more nonplussed than it is stolid.
His head falls to a tilt, and he stops, and thinks. Analyses, deduces, induces, and comes to his own abductions. ]
You're not here by your own free will. How interesting.
[ When the man stops before him and starts talking about claiming him, Sherlock drowns Jim's voice out again. Only this time, his mind his active, focused, picking out little details about Jim's clothing, his grin, even the melodramatic albeit anticipated body language he's being offered. Especially about the fact that Jim's still playing the little game he always played; there's no irritation on his face, no sense of rage chiseled into his features. The fact that he's here along with Sherlock at least indicates that Jim's ultimate move, his final solution to their little problem has resulted in a draw, and Jim isn't even angry?
Something's off. Something's off, even as the villain continues to insinuate something lewd involving the both of them (or at least that's what Sherlock's assuming, by this point, he's long since stopped paying attention to what Jim was saying), without the slightest hint of scorn about his features.
If anything, he's excited. Perhaps Jim has forgotten everything that transpired; the rooftop, the fall. Maybe his plan to cheat death was only half-successful, and he was cursed with amnesia for his efforts. Perhaps this is part of his plot, of him burning Sherlock, maybe the last installment of their little game was just a warm up for the grand finale.
How much more can he do?There's a billion questions to ask and only one answer he wants to hear.
The thought process ends, as does his logical analyses of the psychopath. Time for pleasantries and polite conversation. Or something like that. ]
Must annoy you, not knowing where you are, or how you got here.
[ A guess, though a well-informed one. While Jim has taken the time to gloat about the implications of the beads, he's never once claimed to be the reason for said beads existing, for Sherlock being here, or anything regarding their current situation being part of his game with Sherlock. The detective purses his lips, ignoring the final comment regarding stamina, even if he could have fit an insult into there. Best not to engage Jim with these matters. ]
no subject
He hasn't died yet.
A truth in and of itself, Jim is fresh from his prison, working his games with Sherlock, toying with him, playing with him as he had for that brief moment in which playing games was more interesting and invigorating than working on his own schemes, his own means towards an end. The fall is coming, oh yes he's been planning this one for some time, has it all locked away in that brilliant brain of his own, but he doesn't have the slightest clue that Sherlock has already lived it. He doesn't know that Sherlock knows his plans, his plots, blissfully unaware that Sherlock knows what is coming towards him in due time. Jim is still circling like a cat toying with a mouse, knowing he's already got his prey just in reach, wondering how long he wishes to play with it - him before crushing him with little delicacy, crushing that feeble flame of brilliance that lights something in Jim on fire. As Sherlock speaks, he stares for a moment, jaw working, wishing to continue his onslaught of embarrassing circumstances, of terms. ]
I don't know how I arrived. [ A truth. For a truth that is slowly becoming evident, that Sherlock is just as confused as he, that even the brilliant detective hasn't figured out where they are or what's to be done. His fingers lift to comb through dark hair, and he immediately freezes, already adjusting to make certain the hair lies flat as it's supposed to. Nervous habit, certainly needs to squash that before Sherlock notices such things, though he's sure the detective is noticing quite a lot about his own behaviours. He narrows his eyes and leans in closer, and all of a sudden, Sherlock, you'll find yourself face to face with the man, looking solemn all of a sudden, lips thinly pressed together, nostrils flared, brows furrowed. ]
And you are right - [ He leans in just a bit closer, voice akin to a serpentine hiss, dark eyes gleaming with something sinister. ] - that it does annoy me. Very much so.
[ And he's dropping back, playing with those beads, that angry look dissipating fast into his own curiousity with his own needs, his own strand, attention taken by the coloured little things in front of him, spinning them with his fingers, nearly losing all interest in the detective. His voice lilts back, affected by his gaze being towards his wrist, already adding Sherlock's beads to his own collection. His own little collection of 'I owe you's, flicking the coloured beads on and making certain to himself, promising himself with a bare hint of a smile that he'll be collecting on such debts at some point in time. ] You don't know either. Where you are. How you arrived. What happened. Where this is. Why this - [ Jim makes a big flourish towards their surroundings, fingers splayed out towards the veritable orgy that's proceeding right in front of them. ] - is happening.
[ Jim has to laugh, has to chuckle, shaking his head. ]
It's something not even you can figure out, is it. [ His tone is almost bitter, accusatory - if anyone should figure it out by now it's Sherlock, and now he's gone and disappointed him yet again, his lips going tight, watching, hoping for a rebuttal, a quick defense with information flying at rapid speed. ]
Unf your Jim makes me weak at the knees ♥
Had he been privy to his thoughts, the detective might have laughed. The irony of their situation, the paranoia they were both exuding, the tension filled little chess match they were engaged in, till death do us part, and his advantage over Jim. That somehow, in some way, despite the impossible implications of it, he had already experienced what Jim had yet to do, he was, for once, two steps ahead and he had no idea.
But Sherlock doesn't know that.
So at the admittance, Sherlock allows a smirk to bite into his cheek and the feeling that he's won something to flush through his body. The heat that nips at the tip of his fingertips and the edge of his cheeks is a foreign accompaniment, but the detective accepts it in stride. A slight nod, acknowledgement, though his eyes stay trained on Jim. Erratic movements, reflexes spurring on unconscious habitual behaviour, only to watch Jim halt his fingers from curling through strands of black. Jim is anxious.
Good. thinks the detective, about to press further. Then his personal space is smashed, his little bubble of privacy torn away from him and Jim is mere centimetres away from Sherlock's face and there's breath against his lips and chin and their eyes are so close that he can pick out little flecks in the flint and Sherlock feels sick and dissatisfied and wants to twist away and shove him back and step away and-- ]
The key to open any door is useless without a door to open.
[ And finally, finally Jim withdraws and Sherlock exhales a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. The sickly taste of bile washes over the back of his tongue, strikingly familiar to the smell of Jim's breath against his jaw.
He knows the key isn't real. That's what Moriarty told him just a few minutes before he blew his brains out. But if Jim's going to play this game, like none of their climactic, final engagement ever happened, then Sherlock is going to play it too. His eyes flick over the manic shift in Jim's expression and it doesn't take a proper genius to deduce the criminal is annoyed, enraged even, despite the edge of bemusement flickering over his features.
This time, when Jim speaks, Sherlock listens, blinking slowly. The constant need to contradict Moriarty isn't hammering away at the back of his mind, no, because everything Moriarty is stating is true: he's as lost as the criminal, as unpleasantly displaced as any of the current residents of the city. And if anything, Jim will fare better in a location like this, having been more accustomed to the lewd acts performed, predisposed towards their implications. Sherlock is not only a foreigner but an alien. He's worse than avoidant: he's disinterested.
And here Jim is again, trying to engage him. Affronting the detectives ego with taunts of his incompetence, and Sherlock responds by twitching a brow and lowering his head, gaze steadfast all the same. After a moment's glare, the detective surveys the area, eyes scanning over various people within the area, desperately trying to pick facts off of the residents, stalls, and environment.
His attention is directed back to Jim. ]
We are currently located at a fair, one that does not reside within the United Kingdom, nor Africa, Asia, Antarctica, or either of the Americas. Continental Europe and Australia is likewise unlikely, but not impossible. Our arrival was prompted by our captors drugging us and removing us from our previous location, hence the disorientation experienced before being released into this carnival. As to the motive of our captors, one would assume, given the acts performed and lack of violence experienced, that their intention was entertainment or blackmail.
[ And then he stands up straight, chin lifting again, eyes cast down in a condescending fashion towards the criminal genius.
That was obvious. You should have figured that out yourself. ]
thank you! your sherly is brill
Jim Moriarty could write a book, entirely from his own head, pen it out on paper on the dynamics of an asteroid, on an object hurtling through space and how to calculate it's rate of speed and it's mass and velocity and calculated momentum, but he couldn't determine where they were on Earth. Things were familiar but not familiar enough, and he paces away, hands folded behind his back, expression downcast as he watched the ground dirty the shine on his shoes. He's at a loss, he's at a downfall, because Sherlock knows something he doesn't. He's a controlling man, Jim is, he's the one who pulls the strings, who fabricates places in which they meet. He controls when he allows Sherlock to see him.
So he stares, thoughtfully, those shadowed eyes cast towards Sherlock, teeth pressed tight together as he waits, as he stares, and waits for Sherlock to do his little magic trick.
He's disappointed that he knows just as much as himself, disappointed that he's as much at a loss. Fitting, he supposes, that Sherlock knows only as much as he does. He seems to consider the reasons Sherlock gives with an exaggerated, flamboyant display of pursing his lips in a frown, jutting his lower lip out and hunching his shoulders before returning his gaze to the detective. ] Entertainment, or blackmail. [ He echoes, then follows it with a short, succinct laugh. ]
Tell me you're not that dull, dear. [ Those flint black eyes roll to the back of his head, his head tilting with it, neck exposed as he rolls his head to turn to Sherlock again. ]
It's obvious. Obvious what the motive is. Though I doubt you can see it, you're so blind towards these sorts of things, dear, you're so sweet, acting all innocent. Please tell me you actually realise what is going on.
[ He glances towards the left, and towards the right, the shift of his gaze matching the shift of his expression, teeth exposed as he grins. ]
Whomever decided to bring us here is a smart man, Sherlock; [ He lets the name roll off his lips, letting the guttural ending of his name hang in the air for a moment before continuing. ] He…she. They know how to control people.
[ He taps out the side of his temple. ] Basic instinct. They're appealing to the pleasure center of the human cortex. Keeping them - us - docile, sated, complacent. [ His eyes fall closed, and he shakes his head, laughing. ] Could just as easily be something different other than sexual pleasure. could be food, could be anything that increases endorphins. If you keep your people happy, they don't question.
[ Jim stretches his lips wide, dark lashes falling over his cheeks. ]
But it won't work for you.
[ Or maybe it would. Jim felt like playing a bit of a game with the detective's ego for a while perhaps - let him think he could be above it all. A world driven by sex with a very nonsexual being placed in the heart of it - no one could really say if Sherlock would be at a disadvantage, but Jim was willing to bet on it. ]