A DELIGHTFUL HOUND;

Do not engage me with drama. I'm here to write and only write. This being said, I do not roleplay with anyone who is racist, antisemitic, transphobic, sexist, or otherwise horrible. 

I roleplay Sherlock as bisexual, Indian, and autistic. If you have any issue with any of this, I do not care. 

I will only roleplay with people who are 18+. I will only ship with muses who are 18+.

“Only Tuesdays? Baby, if I were to unleash a crusade upon you, that would be an all-week-long affair. Clear your schedule, because I’m here, and I’m going to ruin your life. You know?” She plays this like being a menace and a busybody is somewhat charming. 

“Mostly, I just want to know if he’s looking at me. Has he been looking at me? Have I been looking at him too much. Ethically, from investigator to investigator, you have to tell me.”

granted,  blanc’s ineffectiveness in relation to narrowing down his list of enemies had everything to do with his sheer incapability of letting go of the  attention  that an enemy provided.  not a strange manifestation of the ego,  that.  people do much  worse  for the sake of attention   –  and who gives you more of it than a person who spends every waking moment dreaming of your demise?  every new number on the list gave him a greater sense of importance that he had difficulty letting go of. 

❝  a swede, yes, but a resident of  switzerland,  actually.  we met when i got  banned  from there.  ❞  chewing on his inner cheek,  he concedes a half shrug.   ❝  suppose he is more interested in  keeping me out  than ever chasing me down anywhere,  so  …  ❞   almost begrudgingly, he crosses the name off his list.   ❝  this really isn’t that much fun. i rather like my enemies,  i tend to them like  little pets.  it’s nice to stay in touch and feed their hatred.  ❞   curiosity lifts his magnificent eyebrow above its equally impressive twin.    ❝  who are  your  five?  they must be special.  ❞ 

sherlock’s eyebrows raise     (    he has never been able to dim curiosity when it strikes him   :      he must learn all of blanc’s stories     ---     and while he understands that patience is preferred,   he has never been the one to deny himself the temporary pleasure of enlightenment     ).     his face is expressive,   despite some of watson’s blog commentors pretending that the great holmes could not even break a sweat,   nevermind a smile.    he does not know what their obsession with his supposed coldness is     ...      but everyone must have their hobby.    his fingers drop from their steeple as he rifles through the paper,  turning it this way and that way,  liking benoit’s signature scrawl.

@foxenhund:  there are no known words for the things i’m feeling.

      ‘ no words known to you. ’  lightly teasing:  a little tug at the corner of their mouth, where a cigarette hangs loosely, jumping with each word.

the rain picks up just a few feet from where they’re standing.  though the awning provides a little cover, raindrops splash against the pavement, ricocheting until they catch the bottoms of eden’s trousers, the tops of their socks.

‘ here, ’  they offer the packet of cigarettes.  ‘ it’ll make you feel better. ’

It is always disappointing, how literally Sherlock takes her. She would slow down enough to explain her own melodrama, her own tendency to exaggerate, if she felt particularly much like exposing herself. But still, she has to say:

“I’m not going to kill you, Sherlock. It’s not that serious.” Even if she’s just as intrigued by having a nemesis, even if she’s the one who accosted him in the first place. 

“Don’t be obvious. He’s very paranoid, and I have to be careful. — How do you always do that?”

@foxenhund​   ›    i  made  a  list  of  enemies  which  i  narrowed  down  from  26  to  5.

❝  you couldn’t possibly.  ❞   the surprise that registers in his tone is not due to the high number of enemies,  which is perhaps the most logical thread of reasoning when faced with such an equation,  but over the other’s  efficiency  of selectivity.   benoit,  leaning over his armchair,  reaches for the list in holmes’s possession in one swift movement,  just as quickly concerning himself with reading it and inspecting the crossed out names.

the detective had a list himself,  but his numbers weren’t so concise.  a line of vexation creases his brow whilst he looks over the list again,  just to be sure,  then with an exasperated sigh returns it to its author.  ❝  mine went from 33 to 30.  ❞   only because in making it,  he had remembered that three of those names had died somewhere in the last century.  ❝  what was your rationale?  ❞ 

sherlock’s fingers ease around the list as it is snatched from him     (     he does not consider the action rude   :       he,  for one,   is an artist when it comes to rudeness and therefore the bite of certain things does not effect him     ...     though he cannot imagine watson reacting well to him learning other ways to inflict himself on the people around him     ).    he has been meticulous as he narrows down his enemies,   considering location,  length and depth of grudge,  and moral reaction to attempted murder.     

“Well, I am. I am the anti-Sherlock initiative, the initiative is me.” She steps back a little, huffing, and allows herself space to assess Sherlock. To determine if he is in the mood to deal with her bullshit — with what, on occasion, may be considered their collective bullshit. 

“I’m supposed to be following someone here. I was afraid you’d gotten told the same instructions. And then, I’d have no choice but to kill you.” She almost looks serious.

it’s a tuesday, and the church calendar is devoid of activities. on afternoons like these the reverend feels almost like a child again: tucked away in the shadow of the impressive stone building, a paperback book open in one hand and a half-eaten granny smith apple in the other. up, boy, chides the memory of orphanage’s superintendent. there’s dishes need clearing.

even his expression is half-childish as he peers up at the unexpected visitor. he lets the apple roll away, destined for decomposition in the grass; he shoves the battered book in his back pocket as he rises. dusting his hands against his slacks, he replies, “only when tempted - which is more frequently that i care to admit.” a beat. he holds out his hand. “reverend mercer,” he states by way of introduction.

sherlock’s eyes catch on the battered book,  but it moves too quickly for him to catch the title.  still,  the wear speaks is more substantial than one man can do.   a text passed through many hands,  then,  and given the other’s occupation   -   he assumes it is a church text.   the vague golden tint of the pages and greening of the cover supports his theory.     not thick enough to be a bible,  though.    he would have to check the reverend’s private quarters,   willingly or unwillingly,   before he left.

“No initiative. Just me.” As if this is formidable, let alone meaningful, enough. 

She almost runs into Sherlock — and she is is, despite her knowing of him, surprised when he doesn’t yield like so many meaningless party guests. She steps back — practically stomping in her platform heels. She is oblivious to whatever she interrupts.

“So you’re just here for fun? That’s it?”

@foxenhund said: 15﹕ sender  and  receiver  make  eye  contact  across  a  busy  room .

He looks at her.

She looks at him. 

He looks at her.

She fucking charges at him, bolting across the room and not caring which rich asshole has to stumble out of her way.

Spirit looks — yes, out of place, as she always does, a little bit. But she’s done well: hair brushed, jewelry, an actual dress and not just a silk nightgown. 

“What the fuck are you doing here? This is my fucking thing.”