LIGHT THE MATCH

[diogenesis]

Who: Mycroft Holmes and ~*you*~
What: An attempt to learn about the City in the most casual way possible.
Where: The Library of Blessed St. Brian
When: Veerdi, Kavadry 3rd
Notes: This is an open post! I have certain things I want to accomplish here, planting certain seeds and so forth, but anyone should feel free to come and poke the antisocial bear.
Warnings: Spoilers for Sherlock S2E3: The Reichenbach Fall.

It has been a long three days.

When Mycroft had first appeared in the small, tiled waiting room at the Inn, his first theory had been that he was dying. Perhaps I'm already dead, he'd thought.

Even now, having had hours of solitude to think it all over, he can't rule it out—there is no absolute way to disprove the existence of an afterlife—but his memories of the moments before he'd arrived here are so clear, and he feels certain he wasn't ill or in the process of being attacked. Surely, there would have been a moment just before unconsciousness, even the smallest moment, that would have allowed him to notice a twinge of pain, a blur of movement, the feeling of disorientation, the sound of a gun going off.

But all he knows is that he blinked, and he was elsewhere.

His chair from the Diogenes Club had taken the journey with him, making the fiasco even more mysterious. Mycroft hadn't even been near the club at the time; he'd been in 10 Downing Street. He can't deny the fact that having something familiar nearby has helped, in a small way, to soothe the burn of such a sudden transition, but in the end it is a single sandbag in the face of a hurricane. Not only has Mycroft been torn away from decades of work in a job only he could do, but his brother, Sherlock, is relying on him for resources and protection more than ever after being forced to fake his own death by the late James Moriarty. Mycroft's level of worry is unspeakable. None of his usual centering techniques have helped to focus his mind. He's beginning to fray at the edges.

This is why, despite the fact that it seems dangerous to go outside what with the City's residents capable of breaking the laws of physics and performing magic (not to mention the place being some version of a police state), Mycroft is at the University's library today. Three days trapped in his own mind was too long (felt the warning signs start to creep in, too much like Sherlock, can't afford that now, have to be alert now). The order of the day is fresh air and fresh knowledge. He needs to learn more about this place, whether it's all in his mind or not.

After all, if he is in a coma, he could be here for quite a long time.

Comments

[cerebral]

Normalcy is a fine art that Charles has perfected over the past twenty years. Of course, that's not quite the case and, in amongst all the thoughts that pass in and out of his mind, he hears his name and pauses writing mid-word. And then he hears himself being assessed (correctly, for the most part):

...age: 27-30 specifically. North American (East Coast, likely New York state); upper-class British English accent (possibly studied in England for a prolonged period). Doctor, part-time lecturer, economically comfortable (quality mens clothing). One volume xenian genetics, two on later 20th century social movements. CiD scratches (new, but here for a month-and-a-half, two maximum)...

And on it goes. Charles stiffens and turns to look right back at the man observing him through the bookcases with a piercing look before making his own investigation. Although the conclusion that he quickly reaches is this man's mind. It's unlike anything Charles has ever encountered: every minute detail around them is being endlessly processed, formed into hypothetical situations, making plans for the future, creating patterns from events that have gone before, fast, furious, constant. Like a machine --no. That does him a disservice.

Charles leans forward, one elbow on his knee, chin on hand to make himself comfortable before pushing past the mechanics to concentrate on the information, picking out what he deems necessary: new to the city, human, and not to be underestimated, certainly. Calculated. But no immediate threat. The rest speeds on and on--

Until he realises that he's been staring at a stranger for no apparent reason. Ah. He breaks his gaze, before looking back with a slight head-tilt, glancing at the empty chair next to him, then to Mycroft once more. The signal is clear; he's free to join him, should he wish.

[diogenesis]

When Charles begins staring, Mycroft continues to stare right back. Charles' reaction is an odd one, to be sure; most people, upon noticing they were being watched, would feel significant discomfort, but this young man shows none at all. Surprise at first, yes (almost as though someone tapped him on the shoulder), but then an intense interest—just as Mycroft studies him, Charles seems to study Mycroft in return.

Eventually he motions for Mycroft to join him. For once, the elder Holmes is stumped. He has no idea what Charles could have gotten out of that exchange, unless his mind operates on the same level as Mycroft and Sherlock's (and it very well could, for this world has exhibited much stranger things). Curiosity inevitably wins out over antisocial tendencies, and Mycroft comes forward, taking a seat in the suggested chair.

He crosses his legs neatly and rests one hand on the curved handle of his umbrella. Reflexively, he attempts to evaluate the probability of danger in this situation, but of course finds he has no data to draw upon. Calculations for escape methods based on Charles being a common human continue to scroll through the back of Mycroft's mind regardless.

Figuring that staring at each other for the better part of two minutes is enough of a greeting, Mycroft jumps right into it. "I believe we spoke over the Network a couple days ago, regarding some recommended reading."