storyline one.

[docwithablog]

chronology -

00. word association w/ Sherlock

1. gen texting w/ Sherlock

2. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

3. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

4. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

5. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

6. texting w/ Sherlock

7. texting w/ Sherlock

8. texting w/ Sherlock

9. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

10. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

11. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

12. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

13. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

14. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

15. texting w/ Sherlock

16. otherwordly w/ Sherlock

17. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

18. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

19. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

20. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

21. texting - part one | texting - part two w/ Sherlock

22. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

23. texting w/ Sherlock

24. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

25. texting w/ Sherlock

26. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

27. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

28. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

29. truth or dare w/ Sherlock

00. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

30. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

31. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

32. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

33. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

34. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

35. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

36. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

37. texting w/ Sherlock

38. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

39. the case of the devil's root w/ Sherlock

00. word association w/ Sherlock

00. texting w/ Sherlock

00. penny for your thoughts w/ Sherlock

40. midnight texting w/ Sherlock

41. interlude w/ Sherlock

42. interlude w/ Sherlock

43. interlude w/ Sherlock

44. texting w/ Sherlock

45. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

46. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

47. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

48. texting w/ Sherlock

49. texting w/ Sherlock

50. texting w/ Sherlock

51. anniversary w/ Sherlock

52. texting w/ Sherlock

53. interlude w/ Sherlock

Comments

2.

[acuriousincident]

[ They've been underway for about fifteen minutes, the train hurtling north along the tracks towards Liverpool. At this time of the day, it isn't terribly crowded yet and they've managed to grab an unoccupied tableseat, Sherlock claiming the window and splaying out his coat onto the neighbouring seat, just to discourage anyone from getting ideas. Lots of free seats all around, people, no need to infringe upon his personal space. Like this, he's currently watching the landscape go by, gaze tracking back and forth. He's got the (unopened) pack of rosin in one pocket, still, fingers playing with it idly as he thinks over the facts of the case, such as they are.

On the face of it, it seems a relatively straightforward assumption that something criminal has taken place (and thus naturally, that's what the police assume because they're all incompetent to various but sadly persistent degrees). One, there's the message urging one Elizabeth to contact the police (the use of the word tell rather than call - intriguing). Two, there's the regularity of Staunton's existence, the total lack of excitement in his life on any known parameters - get out of bed in the morning, make ready for work, go to work, stay until late, go home, sleep, rinse repeat (meaning, a man of habits - though, if you're clever, you ask yourself why). No signs of any criminal connections or associates, no apparent enemies, perhaps except for his fellow violinists, many of whom seem openly jealous at his talents.

Not exactly any obvious reasons for disappearing into thin air, all in all. Boring as his life may usually appear (can't know for sure, not enough data, dangerous to presume), Staunton's certainly made himself a bit of a mystery. ]

[docwithablog]

[ At Euston Station, Sherlock had been waiting for him, all mysterious and all stupid cheekbones in his long coat, collar up and they must have seemed like something out of a noir-type spy film as John had walked over to him and handed him the small pack of rosin, no doubt looking like the most middle-class drug dealer in the history of -- Well, Sherlock could probably tell him, right? He's got the experience, supposedly. Not that John doesn't still have a hard time wrapping his mind around that fact, Jesus. One of many things about Sherlock Holmes, he's beginning to realise, that you just have to accept and move on from.

Like the way he'd just pocketed the rosin and turned on his heel, heading for the platform opposite. No explanations. Nothing.

For now, they're sitting at one of the tables in the train towards Liverpool, because someone from there has got himself killed or kidnapped or in some other way vanished and Sherlock's excited (not that he currently looks it, his eyes tracking the landscape outside the window as it hurtles by, zoom, zoom, zoom) while John's simply too damn unemployed at the moment to turn down a chance of doing something else than empty one more half-full storage box, not that he came with a lot of those to begin with, right? Christ.

Blink, blink. He licks his bottom lip and leans forward, folding his hands neatly on top of the table, looking over at Sherlock with an eyebrow that's on a slow, but steady rise. ]

Are you going to tell me why I had to cross town to get you this very particular and might I add not exactly cheap pack of rosin?

[acuriousincident]

[ John leans forward and Sherlock catches the look on his face reflected back at him in the window before he speaks, his brain running a lightening-quick analysis along the lines of curious, questions, oh yeah, the rosin! Consequently, John's question is quite redundant but that's often the state of things and he's growing used to them as the days go by. The sudden change from a relatively constant state of being just him, alone to... well, the opposite. To questions being asked, comments being made. Sharing breathing space.

So far, he doesn't even mind.

Giving John a quick glance, he grabs the pack and puts it on the table between them. ]

All right. [ He nods at the rosin. ] Open it up and I'll show you.

[ He noted, of course, John's comment regarding the price of the pack, not exactly cheap, meaning he probably couldn't actually afford it. There's something incredibly interesting about the way the other man keeps following along, ignoring the disadvantages for the most part because, what? Adrenalin junkie? Yes, yes, aren't we all. He thinks about the coke currently squirreled away in one of the kitchen cupboards (should probably re-locate that particular stash, actually), about five years with little company except for the Yard (ugh) along with the odd dealer now and then. Mycroft, too, at the worst of times.

Adrenalin is one thing, sure, but as he watches John expectantly, he suspects it might not be all. ]

[docwithablog]

[ All right, says Sherlock like John hasn't tried getting him to answer this particular question at least a handful of times already and it's been, what, an hour since the man texted him. As for evaded explanations, that's probably the current record, really, though John suspects it's a record to be broken and quite soon, too. As Sherlock fishes the pack out of his pocket and places it on the table between them, John looks at it for a long time (can't believe the thing cost him more than 10 quid, for God's sake, he could have had two pints for the same tenner), before finally raising his gaze and meeting the other man's expectant look. Open it up? It's rosin. You'd think he knows what that looks like, yeah.

Other eyebrow going up now, too, he inclines his head wordlessly and reaches for the pack, weighing it briefly on his palm before carefully, very carefully beginning to wrestle apart the cardboard edges. His fingers are easy and slow in their movements, peeling the flaps open without tearing them and finally ending up with a square piece of rosin enwrapped in wooden edges. He's seen these before, of course. Sherlock uses one for his violin, too - though, apparently not this specific type. He puts the packaging aside, in case they need it later, since he's frankly got no idea what the hell Sherlock will be showing him. What state the rosin will be left in afterwards. He's seen what the man does to the bloody human parts he takes home from Bart's, Jesus Christ.

Another long second, then he looks up at Sherlock again, expression open, genuinely interested. Show him, then. Show off. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ He watches as John easily and methodologically (the hands of a soldier and a surgeon, steady, no apparent tremor) unwraps the rosin bar, its bright golden surface catching the light from outside. It looks rather nondescript; thus, it doesn't at all surprise him that the police showed no interest in it whatsoever. A violinist's tool and little else, isn't it? Idiots. With a nod, he reaches into his other pocket, rummages around briefly before coming up with a similar pack, though this one looks used, the cover worn and scratched in places. He peels off the lid and puts it on the table next to John's purchase. ]

Rosin, as the name implies, is made from resin. Some say it emits a pine-like smell which is ludicrous, really, considering the distilling process. All the same, well. [ He grabs John's rosin block and sniffs it loudly enough to make the lady on the other side of the aisle turn in her seat and give them a disapproving stare. Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, frowning. Then, he puts it down and grabs the other one. Same treatment. Sniiiiff, sniff sniff. A slow smile spreads on his lips. Yes, definitely a telling, telling difference here. ] All the same - it certainly shouldn't smell like roses and sandalwood.

[ He pushes the used block of rosin across the table. Leans back in his seat, gaze gliding upwards towards the ceiling. ]

I've checked his flat, of course. I found nothing there nor amongst his personal effects that might easily and logically explain why a star violinist would contaminate some of his most essential tech. You could argue that he likes the smell, supposedly, but whatever the substance might be could easily effect the properties of the rosin, leading to potentially detrimental effects on the musical experience. [ He shakes his head slightly. ] A bit of a wild risk, isn't it, for someone with such unshakable habits?

[docwithablog]

[ Sherlock procures another pack of rosin from his pocket (does he always carry around essential evidence like that, seriously), peeling the lid off that one as well after having placed it on the table next to the pack John brought along. They look pretty much identical aside from level of wear. To John's no doubt untrained, idiot eye, mind you... A tight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth while Sherlock goes into semantics, though luckily not for long, John doesn't mind dictionaries but he prefers them dumber than this, let's be very real. Instead the man grabs the new rosin block and sniffs it non-too-discreetly, sounding very much the coke addict, actually, and John looks to the side, catching the eyes of an elderly lady on the other side of the aisle, his expression turning at least somewhat apologetic. Especially as Sherlock does it again with the other. Jesus. She huffs and very pointedly turns away, back to her needlework or whatever it is she's doing. Knitting.

It certainly shouldn't smell like roses and sandalwood. Looking down at the used pack as it makes its way across the table, John finally raises his chin and looks back at Sherlock. Well, he'll take his word for it. No, really, the more interesting question here is how the hell Sherlock gained entrance to the man's flat, he doesn't exactly come off as a type people would willingly buzz in, now, does he? There are times at three in the morning, honestly, when the man plays his violin completely uncaringly, when John desperately wishes he could leave him outside the locked front door, too. ]

So, someone else contaminated it? Someone who'd just, by the sounds of it, dipped his hands in a bucket of perfume.

[ Withdrawing his hands, letting them drop to his thighs and flexing them restlessly against the fabric of his trousers, John purses his lips slightly. Maybe they're looking for a woman. ... Obviously, they are looking for a woman already, but someone besides her. With a frown, he looks to the side, out the window, landscape a blur of colours on the other side of the glass panels. Who wants to hurt a violinist anyway?

A slight huff. There are times, supposedly, when he can think of at least one person, of course. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ As seems to be his habit, John picks out one of only a few, likely scenarios with apparent ease, his lips pursed in thought as he looks away, out the window. Sherlock watches him for a moment in silence, slipping the two packs of rosin back in his pockets. Though they've known each other only for a short while, he's starting to anticipate both the questions - of which there are many, generally - and the quality of them. Like most other people, the man's hardly any good at spotting essential details around him but he listens which is quite a... sensible personal characteristic.

Not just steady hands, no, but a steady approach to processing information, too.

Albeit slow. Can't help that, the world is slow. ]

If need be, I'll take it back to the lab for testing. [ He mirrors John (implicit social behaviour, a sign of friendliness or empathic competence in certain contexts, manipulative in others; the usual polarity), looking out of the window, fingers of one hand tapping restlessly against the table top. ] Evidently, Staunton's not as lonely as people claim.

[ Then, there's Elizabeth, supposedly with a surname similar enough to Overton that a quick slip of the finger would result in the wrong recipient getting her messages. Tell the police - tell them what, exactly? What would she know and why would she need urging to pass it on to relevant authorities? The keyword in this particular case, he thinks as he watches the world go by outside (houses, backyards, empty trampolines and swing sets, meaningless details, just one continuous flow of visual noise), is "secrets". Personal, private secrets. ]

[docwithablog]

[ A hmm, mostly a non-committal sound to affirm that he's heard what Sherlock said. Probably not necessary, after all, does the man even care, he regularly walks off in the middle of people's sentences as it is, but John is actually at the heart of it all still very pleased 1) to have found a place to live, violin and all and 2) to get to stretch his legs a little, crutch-free, so perhaps he's simply meant to lead by example here as they do it in the Army. Be the bigger man, if you can't have the bigger gun and Sherlock's the one with the guns in this particular context, apparently. Obviously.

The man was known to keep to himself, then? Sort of an archetypical, almost romantic perception of a talented artist, the friendless genius. Outside, the suburbs are blurring together into an indistinct mess of colours and shapes and he blinks, turns his head to look at Sherlock who's tapping his fingers against the tabletop, mirroring John's previous position, lost in thought. Wait, didn't he write -- ]

If he were, I'd have said it ran in the family with how you couldn't get a hold of his via either phone or e-mail. [ The whole train compartment shakes on its hinges as the tracks give somewhere and John frowns, waits for Sherlock to take an interest in him again, well aware that might be a while. Luckily he doesn't actually mind waiting, knows something about staying at his post, has done his fair share of that already, yes. He looks at Sherlock's fingers, quite big, now that you mention it -- tap, tap, tap. He's restless. The real question in regards to Sherlock Holmes is, of course, when is he not? ] I thought only a certain type of people tended to stay off the grid that way.

[acuriousincident]

[ The data's too incomplete for any serious hypotheses at this time and consequently, he saves his preliminary analyses for later (1. parents estranged, keeping secrets that may require police intervention, lonely not by choice but by circumstance, 2. lonely by choice, someone willfully trying to sabotage his career and he's left to get away from the conflicts and 3. disappearance driven by outside forces, criminal reasons related to unknown circumstances). At John's comment, he shrugs. ]

Going by the evidence so far, speaking to his family is imperative. [ He fishes around for his phone. It's squeezed into his trouser pocket and he shifts around a bit, elbows and hips all over the place for a moment before he manages to get it out. ] Everything else is guesswork. [ He opens his notepad app and brings up his most recent, unfinished article, a small blog for his website on the historical development and scientific process regarding blood splatter analysis. Gaze slipping away from John and fixing on the screen, blocking out the other man quite efficiently from view, he adds, voice a murmur: ] Mustn't indulge.

[ With that, he starts tapping away at the screen. ]

[docwithablog]

[ John hasn't exactly been around Baker Street for long. How many days now, seven, ten? Barely two weeks and he already knows from hard-lived experience that this happens, sometimes. This thing, where Sherlock goes from relatively normal human interaction to suddenly being completely unavailable, mentally, if not physically. The man's gaze dropping, like now, to the phone he had to fight to fish out from his trouser pocket, hidden away underneath an unknown number of coat layers, Sherlock looking more octopus than man as he battles it loose from its hiding spot. And like that, you're just out of the picture again. John leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest and just stares at him, halfway entertained, halfway irritated.

Okay, so it's a principle. At least when no fortune cookies are involved, mind you, that you can't guess, because guessing is imprecise, biased, presumably and he feels like he's back at Bart's again, handing in dissertations and papers with so many quotes in them that you'd need a couple of pages worth of references to cover it all. A sigh. Fine, they'll talk to the family, see what they have to say before they think any further ahead. John shakes his head, looks out the window again. Well, before Sherlock thinks any further ahead, all John's got to do is hang on for dear bloody life.

After all, he's seen Sherlock's blog entries. Little studies on their own, awfully long, no one gets through that drivel unless they need to secure a high mark on something and even then, Google's probably going to be a quicker, if not quite as accurate help. Do university students even care about accuracy anymore? Hell, they didn't in his day, they probably still don't.

Sherlock cares, however. Which is undoubtedly what makes him the world's only consulting detective, yes. ]