entrancelogs | Step inside my story and see it's told in blood.

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Step inside my story and see it's told in blood.

Who: Jim Moriarty- actually not anymore. Evelyn Carnahan- or what's left of her. Anyone else who feels like spotting a murder scene.
Where: The library.
When: July 5th, morning.
Rating: M for murder.
Summary: Since finding out Sherlock survived his Fall, Jim's been thinking he has to make good on what he said he'd do. Burn his heart. Here's a first.
The Story:

He thinks he's played nice for much too long, really. Richard Brook, such a kind, bumbling fellow, but now isn't the time for that, no no no no. Jim's had his mind set on evening the score, and his mind works with quick and vicious precision. On the hospital rooftop, it had just been a bluff - an arbitrary number of nonexistent gunmen, or if there had been gunmen, they had not been his - this did not excuse him from making good on his word.

Conveniently, he'd already taken careful note of dear Miss Carnahan's schedule. It was a matter of course, she was Sherlock's friend, she was a potential game piece, and now was the time for her to play her part as a liability for the first time. No matter if he didn't like getting his hands dirty. There was no-one to delegate this manner of work to, here.

The library, which she visited nearly every morning, was big enough for him to easily stay out of sight as she came in and settled down to study. Within a matter of minutes she was engrossed in her reading to the point of forgetting her surroundings, never hearing him approach her from behind.

And just like that it was over for her, really. Holding her head in place, pulled back by her hair to have easy access to her throat with his blade, and once that was done, a matter of barely more than a second, she was already no longer able to scream. A messy affair, blood on his hand, his arm, his shoes from the puddle quickly forming on the floor as he watched her first and last attempts of struggling with dispassionate indifference. Once that was over with, once she had gone still and the blood only quietly soaked the pages of her book, he dropped her to the floor and set to work - to the actual work, the point he was to make. Really, Sherlock, forcing his hand like this...

A few minutes later, anyone walking into or through the library will find the results of his work, but not him, naturally. Just Evie's body, opened up from the stomach with the heart not horribly cleanly removed. And blood, of course. Don't say I didn't warn you about the blood.

((ooc: feel free to thread amongst yourselves. Jim is nowhere to be found, Evie is very dead, but play with this scene as you'd like!))

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Faraday is asleep upstairs for the time being. Enough time to devote some of it to research in the library. And a visit to Evelyn.

When Philip sees it he takes a sharp breath. He thought he would never get used to it. At first. But after countless dreams and just as many hallucinations the scene no longer differs much from the daily rising and setting of the sun.

One of the people he loves and cares about most, cruelly mutilated and devoid of life; and yet he looks at her corpse with indifference, without shock or fear, only acknowledges it with the slightest frown of mild disdain, the same expression somebody might give a spot of cat vomit on your favourite carpet.

"Really? Did I miss a special occasion?"

Clarence doesn't answer. And for a moment Philip thinks he feels different, but he knows that Clarence gains, be it ground or mere satisfaction, for every second he acknowledges the hallucination. It's not real. It will go away. It's not real.

He throws his own book on the desk, right into the puddle of blood. Watches how the liquid flows where it hasn't yet dried. Persistent. Impressively detailed, were he in the mood to compliment the virus for it.

He is about to step on the corpse ("the corpse", he reminds himself) when his hand touches the desk, the blood.

It feels real.

It feels too real for a trick the virus could never pull of to that extent while Philip was so calm, too familiar for a joke Clarence long abandoned for the most part.

It feels wrong.

Philip pales. Stumbles. First back. Then to his knees. Doesn't notice it puts him right in the middle of a puddle of blood. Or doesn't care.

'I wasn't gonna say, but I guess somebody got me on callin' dibs on your broad.'

He thinks he yells for Clarence to shut up then, but the words remain stuck in his throat along with his breath. Along with the heavy and sickening scent of metal that almost makes him retch now.

He lifts her head slowly, carefully lets her body rest on his legs. Without even thinking about it. Without even being able to think about anything, about how Clarence's worst threats and Philip's own nightmares could have bled into the world and made this real.

It can't be real.

Philip doesn't believe that anymore. But he hopes it. Somewhere he still hopes that if he holds her long enough, that if he waits long enough Clarence will gorge himself on his pain and, once sated, let this atrocious sight disappear.

It doesn't happen.

And so Philip shifts her again. Stands up. Takes hurried steps to fetch a blanket. Covers her body and lifts it up. Carries her away. Because she shouldn't be here. Because nobody should see her like this.

Because it's all he can do.

All he got was a short n' sweet text that read:

Please come over.
Philip.

Dean didn't think to question it, not really. He and Philip hang out often enough, maybe less than they did before Sam arrived, but Dean has never been especially stellar at dividing his attentions between different parties. He's an all-or-nothing guy. And right now, it's okay to take a break and drop by Phil's room.

It's right down the hall, for Chrissakes, so it's no big deal.

The somewhat cryptic nature of the text doesn't resonate with him enough to make him less than oblivious to the problem that rests beyond Philip's door, but the sparse droplets of blood on the floor do not go unnoticed.

He knocks "shave-and-a-haircut" and waits.

Less than they did before Sam arrived. Philip caught himself disappointed about it before he remembered how important Sam was- is to Dean. This brother worked out, it seems. Dean deserves it, really, it's--

It's neither here nor there right now.

Right now Philip can't bring himself to even leave the chair next to the bed where he put Evie's body down.

"It's open."

...all right, weird. Philip's a get-the-door kinda guy, but Dean's a big boy and can handle it himself.

The door opens slowly, and he shuts it behind him with little pomp and circumstance. Philip's back is to him, and there appears to be someone on the bed, but the posture of his friend - the stiff shoulders and weary hunch - doesn't bode well. Dean moves around a side table.

"So you wanted me to come over aaaaannnd uh."

He stops short at the foot of the bed, staring at a large lump of bloodstained blanket.

"...what is that."

He put her down on the bed, didn't change anything. Sank into the chair. Paid no attention to Faraday whimpering in the corner at the strange smell. Couldn't bring himself to move. Couldn't bring himself to move away from her.

He texted Dean later. Finally. Already doesn't remember what he wrote. Doesn't know what to do. How to deal with this. How to deal with this alone.

Philip stands up and looks at Dean. Seeing him is comforting. His expression is not. Understandable, given that Philip's shirt, his hands, must look even worse than the blanket on the bed. Not that Philip himself would notice.

"It's her," he says, voice too quiet and hoarse to be of much use.

"Evie," he forces himself to say, louder and clearly. "It's Evie."

Dean had already made his assumptions, and they weren't exactly pretty ones. The initial thought had to do with Clarence, though he wasn't sure of the identity of the victim just yet.

But now...

"What?"

The look on Philip's face says that it wasn't something he could have helped, that it was something that simply occurred, and all he needs right now is the assistance and support of a friend.

"Holy crap, dude, how-"

Dean's first instinct is to move closer, to assess the damage in true Winchester style, to grab an apron from the nearest closet, call Sam, and do a preliminary autopsy to find the cause of death.

But he reins himself in, unable to draw his gaze away from the body as he addresses his friend.

"What happened?"

"I don't know."

This one comes out all on its own, distressed by something Philip never thought to be a source of trouble. It used to be that he had answers. Cruel and bloody answers, delivered in more detail than he ever cared to think about, but now...

"I don't know."

Now the mess was the same. And Philip had no idea how it happened or what to do about it. This shouldn't be happening without Clarence.

"I went to- to the library earlier, I found her like this," he says, as if the scene was as vivid in Dean's mind as it is in his.

"I thought--"

Something choked in his throat stops him, the kind of noise that would pass for strange laughter if the situation didn't so obviously indicate otherwise.

"I thought it was Clarence, just trying to mess with my head, but..."

He clasps a bloody hand over his mouth and sinks back into the chair.

"Okay, okay, just- just take a deep breath for a second."

Dean rakes an anxious hand through his hair. It's been a while since he's dealt with a fresh, dead body, and- No, it's not just a dead body, it's Philip's girlfriend, and he needs to shut down his monster-hunting side for one hot minute to give his friend the help he needs.

So it wasn't Clarence.

Genuine shocker.

He crosses to Philip's chair, lifting the edge of Evelyn's blanket and getting a proper once-over of her condition. The results are worse than he expected, though given the amount of blood present, Dean doesn't know what else he could have been looking for. Split chest with no heart makes him jump to werewolves, but the slit throat tells a different story entirely.

The only monster than could have done this had to have been human. He adjusts the blanket back over her face and rubs at his chin.

"...You know if there was anyone who had it out for her?"

"I found her in the library," he mutters when Dean approaches the bed, only catching himself repeating information when the words have already passed his lips.

Philip takes a deep breath.

It does nothing, at least nothing good; nothing that isn't the scent of more steel in his nose and the feeling of heaviness in his stomach.

The question snaps him out of it.

"Had it out for Evie?"

He can take a break from the pain and the sadness. Just long enough for his voice to be absolutely clear on the absurdity of that very idea.

But Dean knows Evie. He must know that.

"...No."

Dean knows perfectly well that the likelihood of Evie having made any enemies is very slim. Her friendliness and persistently optimistic demeanor might get cloying to some people after a while, but to most, the enthusiasm is more benefit than burden.

"Just tryin' to cover all my bases," he explains calmly, flipping through a mental catalogue of the Mansion's residents.

"I could get Sam in here?" Dean offers weakly. "Try and find out the cause of d- I mean, y'know, the murder weapo- Forget it."

That was a terrible idea and he should feel terrible.

"...what about someone who has it out for you, or anybody she hangs out with?"

Philip tries to think about that. Given how difficult it is to think about anything at all right now this might take a while.

"It was a person?" he mutters distractedly, looking at the body, not at Dean.

Did he expect something else? Was he hoping for something else? He can't even say. Something doesn't sit well with him. Given the whole situation that shouldn't exactly be a surprise.

"Nah, it-"

He pauses, leaning back in to lift the cover and scrutinize the work.

"We're lookin' at a guy with a knife. It's too...uh."

Need he go into detail?

"...precise to be an animal."

Dean glances back at Philip, who is sitting, glassy-eyed, watching the body. He's mocked the guy plenty of times about relationships before he somehow - miraculously - acquired a girlfriend. Here, of all damn places. He's even poked a little fun by asking how they spend their time, what they do when they hang out, and dude, is the sex good?

Because Dean is a nosy bastard who watches soap operas to get a little drama in his life.

But that face...he knows that face. He wore it himself sitting in that crummy little shack with Sam lying on the cot, lifeless. It's an expression of pain and helplessness, because what the Hell are you supposed to do? What the fuck do you do when someone you love is stretched out in front of you, and they're not breathing?

"Hey," he pulls up another chair, sitting next to Philip. "She's gonna come back. We just gotta wait."

He never really doubted that, did he?

Philip takes a deep breath. Forces himself to take another. Another. And another. Until the scent is gone. Until the next one turns into a choked sob, because he's finally found the words he's been looking for.

"I thought it would be me."

Whenever he saw her harmed he saw it happening at his - at Clarence's - hands. And then he hoped for her to be all right. He begged for her to be all right and he thought that this time it would work out. That if she was safe from him she would be safe from everything.

He never considered a third possibility.

"What am-- What am I supposed to do?"

It may come at a price, but at least he knows how to destroy Clarence. With somebody else whose identity he can't even guess at... that's another matter entirely.

Edited 2012-07-06 23:04 (UTC)

Now that is a sentiment Dean can relate to. Constantly worrying that everyone else around you is in danger because of you. You alone are the cause of their pain, and you alone have to distance yourself. Dean learned the hard way that there are people out there far too stubborn to let him walk roads by himself, and those are the kinds of people who accept the consequences, come what may.

It doesn't mean he has to like it. Hell, he can downright hate it at times.

But those people will still be there.

"Wait. I can go check the library with Sam. Scope it out, look for clues. We might not figure out who it was until she wakes up, but we can get a headstart. Might even throw a bone over at that detective guy livin' on the second floor."

Dean hadn't considered that option at first, but it's sounding more and more tempting.

"...look, I've been...in a similar situation, once."

And he hadn't waited. Not then. But that was different.

"You gotta stay with her. Be here when she comes back, tell 'er everything is gonna be fine. She's your girlfriend, for Chrissakes, you'll think of something. All the hard stuff'll come later."

Edited 2012-07-06 23:28 (UTC)

He wants to ask if that was what Dean did too, but honestly, what does it matter? He either did and it worked or he didn't and he learned from it - why bother with the prototype?

"Right."

Without that question Philip has little more to offer than a nod, but letting his eyes wander over the sheets he finds his thoughts coming into focus, his mind becoming clearer. It's not much, but it's no longer the mess of hazy red images and distress it used to be.

"Dean."

It's enough to make him remember something important.

"...Thanks."

Once again.

"No prob."

Really, it's...it's no problem at all. Dean likes having people rely on him. He likes the responsibility. It makes him feel needed. Useful in a place where his particular talents aren't showcased all that often.

"Lemme know if you hear anything."

Dean stands, not so much clapping a hand to Philip's back as resting one on his shoulder.

"And shoot me a text when she wakes up."

Philip nods.

"You too. I'll be--"

Well, obviously.

"I'll be here."

He gets to his feet.

"...Cleaning up."

Because that's something else he can do and Evie deserves better than to wake up caked in dried blood.

"Okay."

Dean, not being aware of what one can glean from all the blood, isn't about to dissuade Philip from cleaning Evelyn up. As a hunter, he's woken up more times than he can count with blood crusted on his face, and even then - with the previous experiences - it's still not a cakewalk.

"Don't forget to send me a message, y'hear?" he points determinedly, backing up towards the door before shooting the prone form on the bed another small frown.

He leaves, giving Philip the time he needs with the everything that has crumbled beneath him.

The magical world event had given Sherlock a few new leads in his investigations into the workings of Wonderland. Perhaps he’d approached the whole concept of ‘magic’ the wrong way around. Apparently, just saying that things were the way they were due to magic wasn’t as much a cop-out as he originally thought. Magic was more structured than that; more elegant in its composition than anything-for-any-reason-no-questions-asked. Even if he couldn’t perform any—aside from the potions which he was rather eager to continue to invest in—he could grow a greater understanding of magic itself and perhaps through that discover the rhyme or reason to Wonderland and/or the Mansion.

It was worth a shot anyway. He had no leads otherwise.

The library had a very distinct smell to it today, though. Along with the deliciously aged aroma of old tomes, it smelled metallic and thick—like a crime scene. It wasn’t difficult to track down where the strongest point was in the large room. He’d walked there on instinct, knowing at least one particular spot where a certain resident enjoyed the ambiance.

The amount of blood made survival unlikely.

The book on the table, a translation, The Book of the Dead by E. A. Wallis Budge, made the owner of said blood rather obvious. He had her DNA on file; he could know for a fact given the time the tests took to run. He’d seen enough to be sure, however. The only real mysteries were who had killed her, for what purpose, who had removed the body, and to where? There was a blood trail, at least, which he could follow. Feet and splashes—the body was still fresh enough for some blood to still drip or the wound so severe it had yet to properly coagulate. The trail lessened to nothing after only a few yards but the gait, the shoe size, the direction of travel, all the details he could still find let him know the likely scenario.

Oh, but that wasn’t kind. And surely, as it was the least desired outcome, it was what had happened.

Evelyn wouldn’t want him to be bothered but her body might contain vital clues to tracking down her murderer. Surely that’s an acceptable reason to bother the mysterious Philip. Without much more in hesitation, he took off up the stairs to Philip’s room, knocking urgently at the door.

Poor, poor, Sherlock.

Not only has his crime scene been disturbed, no, somebody even had the gall to mess with the victim's body. Wash it clean of all the blood. Put fresh clothes on i-- on her. Place her on a new sheet.

He did the same for himself. A quick shower. A change of clothes. It didn't seem to help the iron smell, or so he thought.

It didn't help anything.

Philip sits by her side once again when Sherlock knocks. Well. When he hears a knock, expecting it to be Dean.

He hurries to the door this time. Opens it. And is less than pleased with the one standing behind it.

"What."

It's barely a question. Philip might as well shout at him to go away.

Sherlock isn't surprised he's not exactly welcome.

"Evelyn's body. Do you still have it?"

He needs to see it. There might be some clue.

And Philip still only knows half of it.

"How did..."

It's one thing to read about the detective's deductions while growing up, but another to witness them in person. It doesn't occur to Philip that it might be as simple as that. For now it sounds like information. Delivered by the least wanted person in the most terrible way possible.

Philip can't even attempt to lie, even if he wanted to.

"What happened to her?"

Without thinking about it he takes a step aside, blocking the easy way in further. As if the message wasn't clear enough already.

Sherlock is in a bit of a hurry but decides to be perhaps a bit more careful here than he might normally be. He still keeps himself closed off inside, however, not letting on the slightest bit that Evenlyn's death is more than just a case for him.

"She was murdered, Philip, as I'm sure you are aware. I can only tell so much from the blood splatter but I imagine her throat was cut open. Doesn't exactly account for the larger pool, though. I need to see the body."

So he only found the scene of the crime himself. And everything else he knows? Sherlock Holmes. The power of deduction. What else. Philip is willing to believe that it adds up.

He presses one hand against the wall. Believable doesn't make it any better, doesn't make Sherlock any more welcome, in fact his presence couldn't be any less wanted. The things he likes to uncover out of boredom are still too clear in Philip's mind, the question whether he's only here for his entertainment now sits too readily at the tip of Philip's tongue.

And still the merit of Sherlock's meddling doesn't escape Philip. Neither does the selfishness of his urge to slam the door in the detective's face. Unfortunately. Philip's arm sinks and he steps aside, nodding for the man to go in.

"Somebody took her heart out," he adds in a low voice, looking down at the floor.

Sounds better than ripped or tore at any rate. Would sound even better if it was something Philip could claim not to have ~~caused~~ seen before.

Sherlock almost smiled at being allowed in but the tweak at the corner of his lips fell fast at the mention of the heart beign removed.

He paused, not really prepared for that and the motivation for the action making it very not good as he processed the meaning. The culpret was becoming very, very clear.

He stumbled over his words, becoming awkward as he hovored slightly before making a desisive move towards the bed and the body.

"... I'm sorry," he said very quickly and rather quietly before he sees the state his evidence is in and almost regrets offering any condolences.

Washed. Clean. Evidence completly erased. Having moistened the body it's hard to even figure what came first: the slice on her throat or the garish wound in her chest.

The throat. It was the throat. Whoever did it obviously didn't know the first thing about how to have a good time with a gal before grabbing her ticker.

Or so Clarence put it.

Philip nods at the condolences. Keeps his head down. Stays a few steps away without looking.

It's necessary, he convinces himself of that much. But he didn't clean her up to watch her acting the puzzle piece.

(He did... clean her up. It's a thought that occurs to him now with a twinge of guilt in his stomach. Not a sentiment he will acknowledge for too long. Certainly not an apology he is going to make.)

Sherlock tries not to show how irritated this makes him. He gets one look at the hole in her chest then walks away from her.

"Not much I'm going to get from her. Not much I need, however. Thank you."

He was almost ready to simply walk right back out but paused.

"How well did you know her friends? If I asked you about a man she might have known--Irish, 5'8", dark hair--would you know who I was speaking of?"

If Philip knew Sherlock better he would be thankful for his restraint. As it is he feels merely put off by the cold display. Her friends. Sherlock was supposed to be one of those, wasn't he? She talked about him, more than he remembers her talking about anyone else.

And that's what she is to him. A piece of unhelpful evidence.

But for Evie's sake Philip too does his best not to let those sentiments show and focuses on the questions instead. The second question; that particular friend, not one of the others she may or may not have mentioned.

"I've never met him," he says, trying to picture the person in question.

No such luck.

"But she mentioned... she mentioned an Irishman, erm..."

Short name. Not especially memorable. What was it agai--

"Brook."

A very nice man, according to Evie. Philip dreads where this is going.

Sherlock paled just slightly. He expected as much but to hear that name and know the context it contains.

"Richard Brook is her killer, Philip. Avoid him at all costs. I'll deal with this."

He took a few more steps towards the door then paused, turning back towards him. "I guess you should know that this is my fault. I didn't kill her but... I am the reason she is dead."

There's a scoff that suggests Philip's answer to the first statement could be a resounding as if. Not knowing what happened to Evie was the true tragedy, the core issue until now. Not knowing how to deal with what happened is the next problem. It's not one Philip sees himself answering by sitting idly by.

He's seen worse, after all. Hell. Part of him is worse.

'I say we find the guy and buy him dinner! I say I buy him dinner. I mean, c'mon, why do we only ever hang around the people you like? How's that for fair living?'

But truthfully it's the second statement that really gets Philip's attention. So much despair. So much anger. And nobody to blame for it. Well. Until now.

"How?"

"Richard Brook is James Moriarty. He's my nemesis. He's been in Wonderland for several months now and I've been aware of it since day one. He and I have had the occasion to speak on several instances. Why I said nothing is to you, I'm sure, not important right now. What is important is that James Moriarty promised to burn the heart out of me. And he's targeted Evelyn because she is a friend of mine. If she were not, she would not be considered a target."

He doesn't bother defending himself. For his previous deception of Philip, he really rather deserves his anger.

Moriarty. No need to explain that name to Philip. Seeing what the future turned Detective Holmes into begs the question what became of the criminal mastermind he read about as a boy, but that question is nowhere near his top priority now.

The first item on the list is, rather involuntarily, incredulous laughter that escapes him. Accompanied by his head shaking it won't quite stop and has him pressing a palm to his forehead.

It's a cruel remake of his own history, of Clarence torturing Daniel for his friendship with Philip alone. Of killing him, ripping his heart out. For the briefest of moments he almost feels sympathy for Sherlock, but the sentiment is fleeting.

The virus spared Evie all that and now... now it turns out that all of Philip's relief was in vain, because somebody else's monster got to her first. The cruelty of those odds is almost too much to bear.

The laughter slowly ebbs away and Philip looks at Sherlock.

"So I--"

He catches himself. Swallows and wipes away a tear.

"I suppose you've got a plan to avenge your friend?"

The unstable grin through grit teeth, the sarcasm on that particular word, he couldn't make it clearer. That he doesn't for one second believe Evelyn meant enough- meant anything to Sherlock. That she died for nothing.

Hysterics are not really what Sherlock was hoping for. He stands still and quiet while Phillip deals with whatever emotions he's feeling, not batting so much as an eye at his display. Just a machine. It's far better that way.

"I don't have a plan yet but when it's time, I will. I still need to know why he's doing this."

Oh, those are not hysterics yet. That is a mild display of incredulity, now turning into a frown.

A frown that wants to say Philip thought it was because Evelyn was such a good friend. That wants to say Philip doubts there is a reason beyond wanting to watch Sherlock suffer.

"...Did he give you her heart yet?"

That didn't actually want to say this.

Edited 2012-07-06 22:50 (UTC)

"I don't know what he's done with it. But she won't require it to resurrect tomorrow. She'll be fine. Just a bad memory."

He doesn't really want to think of what Moriarty would want with a human heart.

"I know," he mumbles without really thinking about it.

To the middle part. Because he's seen it. Because it's where his question came from. It's what Clarence would do, assuming he would choose to curb his appetite. A gift to remind Philip of his work.

He isn't even sure why he mentions it, really. But maybe that sympathy hasn't quite washed off yet, maybe some of it still remains in the hopes of treating Sherlock as a friend rather than an enemy or a nuisance in this situation.

Maybe Philip really needs to take any opportunity he can to convince himself that Evelyn meant more to Sherlock than he lets on.

But the detective is not making that task especially easy.

"Just a bad memory," Philip repeats bitterly, in a tone suggesting that the time before somebody overstays his welcome is rapidly approaching an end.

Sherlock nods, getting the clue for once. He has work to do as it is. He just felt he owed it to the man.

He really didn't have any more words to spare so he just nodded and let himself out. He really wasn't the comforting sort anyhow. And even were he, he was probably the last person who could or should comfort Philip.

Philip waits before closing the door behind Sherlock. Locking it. He'd rather do without any more visitors for the time being. He still has to text Dean. Let him know the answer he is out looking for. But that only takes a moment.

And then?

Then he tries to feel something. Draws a blank instead. He thought clarity about what happened would help, but it leaves him with no idea what to do. He thought being angry at Sherlock would come easy, but the situation is too familiar and Evie... Evie never cared about the price she might have to pay for staying close to somebody.

A kindness wasted on Sherlock. That much bitterness Philip can muster.

He can be angry at Moriarty, but without a face or even a voice that anger is somewhat lacking in direction. And Sherlock is, unfortunately, right about advising him to stand back. In any sane setting he would not for a second question leaving the task up to the police. And here the detective is as close to that as Philip will get.

So now?

Now Philip walks back to the bed, adjusts what little Sherlock changed about the scene and sits down, covering Evelyn's hand with his own. Stay with her. Be there when she comes back. Tell her everything is going to be fine.

And the difficult things will come later.

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Step inside my story and see it's told in blood.

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