To say he's in shock is a mild understatement. His mind simply has stopped processing things, enough that he followed the pull to the drill in a silent haze. His eyes are wide, and now that it's over, Mycroft's leaning over the railing looking very much like someone just told him that he needs to start rewriting his will.
No one can give him a straight answer - every ocean is somewhere. It can't be nothing. It can't be a ship with a name he's never heard of, foreign and strange and confusing all at once. The note from Gal Friday - the woman has no face - is in his hands, being turned over and over, but offering no clues. Suddenly, he shoves the card in his pocket, and rips the lei from over his head. His eyes fix on the disc, and his tone is one of quiet horror a second later.
"This is bone. What on earth...?"
He'd know that hue anywhere. He might be on the verge of throwing it into the water.
recollection. - bobby b's.
There's small mercies, even when thrust into what seems like an impossible nightmare. There's a humidor, and that he doesn't break at the idea of finding decent tobacco in the midst of utter absurdity is a sign that he still retains his faculties. So it is that Mycroft is pacing the room, his chosen cigar already lit, with a steady stream of smoke following.
It can't be the way it is, and yet it is. The lei he was given is half hanging out of his pocket, crammed there after the drill, and it's only when a sharp pain hits his leg that he yelps, cigar jumping from his hands as he pivots to see what happened and why it hurts.
...A crab, with a knife taped to it, scuttling away. He'd kick it if it wasn't running so quickly. Instead, he curses under his breath, and then rushes to also stamp out the still lit cigar. What a waste, and he'd hysterically laugh if he didn't need to staunch the bleeding. Handkerchief sacrificed to create a tight and impromptu bandage, and he looks at the sight mournfully. Trousers ruined, cigar wasted, some knife-ridden crab on the loose. Running a hand through his hair, he needs to help himself somehow.
"...focus, Holmes."
blocked - cosmic bowling.
Why he came in here is his own guess. He's held court with his own thoughts already, checked his body for signs of being surreptitiously drugged and found nothing, imagined what everyone he knows would say, and perhaps had latched onto the word "bowling" like a homesick sailor, desperate for something else he can understand. The trappings are different - tacky and sickening, almost oppressive - but the basic shape can be remembered. There's a skeleton of the same, under it, and Mycroft is greedy for something understandable.
Picking up a ball, he approaches the line, judges the angle and weight, and casts it forward. The pins have no choice but to fall, a perfectly calculated strike without him having to take in such factors as the ground. It'd be a moment to be proud of, if the monitor didn't see that moment to bellow out "STRIKE" in a tone better suited to a chain smoking frog with the volume of a sports watching drunkard.
It startles him, bad enough that his hand goes up to clutch at his chest. Deep breaths to steady himself. And giving a death glare to a strange metal and glass box doesn't do anything, but it makes him feel better.
wildcard.
[throw me anyone and anything. should it come up, please ask me before fourth walling him with the Doyle stories. in his world, his baby brother is not yet a consulting detective, but instead a troublesome teenager.]
mycroft holmes | mycroft holmes series
To say he's in shock is a mild understatement. His mind simply has stopped processing things, enough that he followed the pull to the drill in a silent haze. His eyes are wide, and now that it's over, Mycroft's leaning over the railing looking very much like someone just told him that he needs to start rewriting his will.
No one can give him a straight answer - every ocean is somewhere. It can't be nothing. It can't be a ship with a name he's never heard of, foreign and strange and confusing all at once. The note from Gal Friday - the woman has no face - is in his hands, being turned over and over, but offering no clues. Suddenly, he shoves the card in his pocket, and rips the lei from over his head. His eyes fix on the disc, and his tone is one of quiet horror a second later.
"This is bone. What on earth...?"
He'd know that hue anywhere. He might be on the verge of throwing it into the water.
recollection. - bobby b's.
There's small mercies, even when thrust into what seems like an impossible nightmare. There's a humidor, and that he doesn't break at the idea of finding decent tobacco in the midst of utter absurdity is a sign that he still retains his faculties. So it is that Mycroft is pacing the room, his chosen cigar already lit, with a steady stream of smoke following.
It can't be the way it is, and yet it is. The lei he was given is half hanging out of his pocket, crammed there after the drill, and it's only when a sharp pain hits his leg that he yelps, cigar jumping from his hands as he pivots to see what happened and why it hurts.
...A crab, with a knife taped to it, scuttling away. He'd kick it if it wasn't running so quickly. Instead, he curses under his breath, and then rushes to also stamp out the still lit cigar. What a waste, and he'd hysterically laugh if he didn't need to staunch the bleeding. Handkerchief sacrificed to create a tight and impromptu bandage, and he looks at the sight mournfully. Trousers ruined, cigar wasted, some knife-ridden crab on the loose. Running a hand through his hair, he needs to help himself somehow.
"...focus, Holmes."
blocked - cosmic bowling.
Why he came in here is his own guess. He's held court with his own thoughts already, checked his body for signs of being surreptitiously drugged and found nothing, imagined what everyone he knows would say, and perhaps had latched onto the word "bowling" like a homesick sailor, desperate for something else he can understand. The trappings are different - tacky and sickening, almost oppressive - but the basic shape can be remembered. There's a skeleton of the same, under it, and Mycroft is greedy for something understandable.
Picking up a ball, he approaches the line, judges the angle and weight, and casts it forward. The pins have no choice but to fall, a perfectly calculated strike without him having to take in such factors as the ground. It'd be a moment to be proud of, if the monitor didn't see that moment to bellow out "STRIKE" in a tone better suited to a chain smoking frog with the volume of a sports watching drunkard.
It startles him, bad enough that his hand goes up to clutch at his chest. Deep breaths to steady himself. And giving a death glare to a strange metal and glass box doesn't do anything, but it makes him feel better.
wildcard.
[throw me anyone and anything. should it come up, please ask me before fourth walling him with the Doyle stories. in his world, his baby brother is not yet a consulting detective, but instead a troublesome teenager.]