Feb. 6th, 2013

shotup: (pic#5323852)
[personal profile] shotup
[The feed turns on showing Roy's spartan looking MAC apartment. Nothing seems all that out of place, it just seems like your average evening in an average bachelor pad. That is, until Roy turns the camera on himself 'Blair Witch' style.]

Can you hear that? [He goes quiet, looking off to the side. In the background there is a faint rustling sound, followed by a soft cooing.] You can hear that, right? It's like pigeons or something. Except it's coming from inside the building.

[The image is a little shaky as he walks through the apartment, following the noises. Gradually, the cooing sound gets louder and is interrupted by some angry sounding clucks.]

Where the hell is it coming from?

[He's searched the entire apartment by now, leaving Roy standing before his front door. The enraged clucking is now unmistakable, along with chicken claws and beaks pecking and scratching at his door.]

Is this some kind of demented joke? Who lets chickens roam the halls of apartment buildings anyways? Can somebody call animal control?
deductives: (prepared to do anything)
[personal profile] deductives
[The feed is silent at first, overlooking a deep precipice. Strangely, the bottom looks like the sky, but there's no water causing a reflection. When the camera shifts upwards, high above the ground a city hangs upside down. In between, on the cliff face, there are winding staircases and castle parapets assembled in impossible fashions, and those with a keen eye may notice rather large spiders creeping around them.

At last the view settles on an elaborate looking throne, where Sherlock sits. His legs are typically crossed and his fingers steepled, but the suit he wears is a bit too clean cut, as is his hair. A tie, already odd enough on him, is embroidered with tiny skulls. None of this may seem too unusual until he finally speaks.]


You know, you all are so very, very disappointing. [The voice is Sherlock's, but it also isn't, doubled with someone else's. Someone with a decidedly Irish lilt.] I've been in this city for months now, and none of you had the decency to point me in the direction of even one unusual murder. I've never been tempted until now to make up my own, but now I have a convenient place to store that bothersome, useless things people call hearts or consciences.

[His hands fall down to his lap, revealing several blood streaks trickling down his face.]

Ghosts have no need for those, luckily. That's all I might as well be at this point; it would certainly be more convenient. [He sighs dramatically.] Buuut, if some of my old pets want to come scratching at the door post, I suppose I will have to oblige them.

[The feed cuts, shorting out a bizarre, bark of a laugh.]

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