Entry tags:
APP: Sherlock Holmes // Route
Player
Name: Cassie
Personal Journal:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fishie
E-mail: mac.is.a.girl[at]gmail.com
AIM: captchalogue it
Timezone: GMT -6
Current Characters in Route: Dave Strider, Miyuki Chitose
Character
Name: Sherlock Holmes
Series: Sherlock (BBC)
Timeline: Post Hounds of Baskerville.
Canon Resource Links: Wiki!
Personality: Smart is the new sexy.
If that were true, Sherlock Holmes would be sex on legs, a walking wet dream, a veritable force majeure in the bedroom. He is, first, foremost and perhaps finally, an intellectual. He's highly observant, picking up on the tiniest details that the average person wouldn't even notice, much less think twice about. But it's not just taking note of these things that makes him brilliant: every minutia is analyzed to draw a conclusion. Flecks of mud on a dead woman's calves becomes a missing suitcase; scratches on a fancy mobile phone become a drunk older sibling. What can't be immediately sussed out is filed away for later assessment.
That's all well and good, but a mind like that can't be left stagnant. When without stimulation, Sherlock becomes quickly bored, which leads to Terrible Things for other people. He's pretty much impossible to live with when he's bored — he's petulant, childish, irritable, moody, and puts bullet holes in walls. At its extremes, this has in the past led to his abuse of cocaine, though he hasn't had that problem in some time.
To be fair, though, he's close to being impossible to live with most of the time, anyhow. His attitude is, at its less desirable points, disdainful, arrogant, smug and self-centered. He has a raging superiority complex that he makes no attempt to hide. Irene Adler even suggests that he believes in a higher power — himself. It's not so farfetched. Being as clever as he is, he's frequently frustrated by the simple-mindedness of the average person, and he isn't shy about saying so.
More often than not, he's offending people, whether accidentally or intentionally. Not only does he get under their skin by picking up on so many little personal details (often ones that they'd rather he missed, like a married man's cologne on a woman who's not his wife), but he either doesn't possess or doesn't utilize any manner of tact. The result is a cliché — the socially inept supergenius with almost no interpersonal skills whatsoever. He can often miss social cues, and doesn't tend to express the full range of emotions that most people do, but he's skilled at faking it, when he's prepared.
And while he may not seem to have any consideration for other people's feelings, that's only partially the truth. Strangers don't matter to him, but he's quite capable of growing attached to the people who are patient enough or unfortunate enough to put up with him, and who show him loyalty in return. Those people he loves are subject to a fierce and sometimes violent protection when the need arises; he tortures a man and throws him from a window for harming his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, of whom he's quite fond.
As a friend, he's certainly difficult. He has a bad habit of inadvertently wounding those close to him, through indifference, carelessness or a callousness that borders on cruelty. He is not, however, without remorse. When he realizes he's hurt Molly Hooper, he's quick to apologize, even in front of their other friends, and even gives her a kiss on the cheek. Though he doesn't show it much, he's clearly capable of caring and kindness, and an all but unshakable loyalty — [he will go so far as to fake his own death in order to save the lives of the people he loves].
Strengths/Weaknesses:
✔ He's fucking clever. He can get from point A to point B faster than the above-average bear. He puts together information in neat little mental jigsaw puzzles. He's got your number.
✔ He's highly observant. All the abductive reasoning in the world won't do shit if you don't notice the little things. Very little escapes Sherlock's notice.
✔ He has excellent memory. He's said that he uses his brain like a hard drive; information only leaves it when he deletes it to make room for more. He also utilizes specific recall methods to ensure nothing gets lost.
✔ He's physically capable. We've seen him win swordfights, he knows how to use a gun, he seems to be fit (and does a fair bit of running around). In short, he can (mostly) take care of himself.
✔ He's a convincing actor. When the situation calls for it, he can summon up believable tears, grief, fear, embarrassment and even alacrity.
✘ He's socially inept. He doesn't have much in the way of interpersonal skills, doesn't connect well with people and finds it hard to relate to them.
✘ He's kind of a dick. Between speaking without any thought toward others' feelings and speaking with thought toward others' feelings (and doing it anyway), he doesn't make a lot of friends.
✘ He thought the Sun orbited the Earth. That is to say, when Sherlock deems certain knowledge unnecessary, he simply... discards it. Forgets it completely. And then he looks like a moron.
✘ He's not infallible! Even at his own game, he doesn't always win. He can be outsmarted, and he can (and does) miss things — he says himself that 'there's always something' he gets wrong.
✘ He has vices. Between a dormant cocaine problem, a driving need for mental stimulation and an addiction to nicotine, he does have some rather large chinks in his armor.
Pokémon Information
Affiliation: Breeder.
Starter: Lillipup.
Password: Raspberry lemonade! ♥
Samples
First Person Sample: New Bark Town: population negligible. Hardly a town; 'village' might be more accurate. Scattering of houses highly similar in build (likely manufactured) and a laboratory of some sort. The laboratory doors are locked, and the scientist in the center of the town is singularly unhelpful.
The house I awoke in: modest, well-kept, occupied by a woman calling herself 'Mom.' (Possible sign of mental instability; more likely an affectation meant to be endearing. It isn't.)
Bedroom: frequently traveled, rarely used. Many different occupants, yet bare of any personal touch. Window hasn't been opened in months, closet empty, bedsheets fresh. Perhaps renters? Perhaps not. 'Mom': quite anxious to see me go. Promptly put me out on the stoop with supplies and a puppy.
Climate: not right for England this time of year. Locals claim the date is March 4th, two weeks ago. (Elaborate prank? Not likely. Mycroft is busy, and I haven't been drugged or knocked around the head, either.)
Mobile: no signal. Data intact. Battery nearly full, but no way to charge it. May as well turn it off.
This music is grating, and the town appears to have nothing left to offer but a remarkably large number of people wandering about looking lost. (Social experiment? Reality programme? No sign of cameras, arrival here still inexplicable.)
Will proceed westward on Route 29, the only viable exit from the town.
Update: The puppy refuses to leave my side. Fiercely protective, for not coming as high as my knee. I suppose there's no helping it.
Third Person Sample: "Diglett!"
Sherlock's brow knit sharply. The little mole-creature disappeared into its dirt mound once again: twenty or more centimetres of body vanished into a scrounging of dirt not more than two handfuls, less than half the height of the thing itself.
It had been easy enough to explain at first: the creature was subterranean, traveling beneath the ground. That possibility, however, went out the window when he came into the inn lobby this afternoon to find his newest acquisition bobbing cheerfully in and out of sight... on a sofa.
"Dig!" it repeated. Grating alacrity. Either it had no inkling of its own impossible existence, or it simply didn't care. Sherlock was banking on the latter. The Diglett had always been cheeky.
Rising from his crouch, he approached the sofa and waited for it to reappear. The instant it did, he snatched at it with both hands — and missed entirely.
"Good luck," a man said, drawing Sherlock's attention to the reception desk. "They can pull their heads underground at the speed of light!"
"... Of course they can. Why not, after all? If Pidgeots can fly at Mach Two and Gardevoirs can create black holes—"
He was interrupted by the Diglett's saucy "Dig!" as it showed its face again. When he made no move to grab it this time, the Diglett lingered above the surface of the cushions, watching him with discerning eyes. Sherlock crouched beside the couch, level with its gaze.
"And a Magcargot's body is heated to eighteen-thousand degrees Fahrenheit," he went on as the Diglett bobbed, "then it follows entirely logically that a Diglett could pop underground at the speed of light.
"Of course, if it were logical, it would be the first logical thing to happen here. Only the transplants to this world seem to even take note of the sheer implausibility of the native flora and fauna. The locals carry on cheerfully ignoring these fallacies."
He paused a beat, peripherally aware of the desk clerk slowly going back to his business. The Diglett rose a few centimeters.
"Diglett?"
"Perhaps the 'locals' were once transplants themselves. It could be a gradual brainwashing process, an incongruous reality impressed upon individuals made vulnerable through isolation from the outside world."
There was something wrong with that finding, and he knew it. The Diglett, inexplicably (so many inexplicable things before lunch today), seemed to realize it, too. It scrunched its large, pink nose.
"... And yet, here you are, and across the room, there, is a rodent that discharges electricity, and upstairs, there's a man down the hall with a dog that breathes fire. There's much more to this place than a simple experiment, though I won't rule out brainwashing, based on the behaviour of the so-called locals."
The Diglett disappeared once more, only to reappear with, of all things, a coin. Presumably, it was retrieved from the depths of the sofa. Sherlock allowed the creature to deposit the coin in his hand, and turned it over in his fingers as he spoke.
"It would appear that we've exhausted all explanations, save for one: that this world, with all its anomalies, simply exists." He palmed the coin. If he accepted that as the truth (as the only remaining possibility, however improbable), he was left with a new challenge altogether: understanding the science that this world operated on. It was, in its own right, a satisfying conclusion.
Name: Cassie
Personal Journal:
fishieE-mail: mac.is.a.girl[at]gmail.com
AIM: captchalogue it
Timezone: GMT -6
Current Characters in Route: Dave Strider, Miyuki Chitose
Character
Name: Sherlock Holmes
Series: Sherlock (BBC)
Timeline: Post Hounds of Baskerville.
Canon Resource Links: Wiki!
Personality: Smart is the new sexy.
If that were true, Sherlock Holmes would be sex on legs, a walking wet dream, a veritable force majeure in the bedroom. He is, first, foremost and perhaps finally, an intellectual. He's highly observant, picking up on the tiniest details that the average person wouldn't even notice, much less think twice about. But it's not just taking note of these things that makes him brilliant: every minutia is analyzed to draw a conclusion. Flecks of mud on a dead woman's calves becomes a missing suitcase; scratches on a fancy mobile phone become a drunk older sibling. What can't be immediately sussed out is filed away for later assessment.
That's all well and good, but a mind like that can't be left stagnant. When without stimulation, Sherlock becomes quickly bored, which leads to Terrible Things for other people. He's pretty much impossible to live with when he's bored — he's petulant, childish, irritable, moody, and puts bullet holes in walls. At its extremes, this has in the past led to his abuse of cocaine, though he hasn't had that problem in some time.
To be fair, though, he's close to being impossible to live with most of the time, anyhow. His attitude is, at its less desirable points, disdainful, arrogant, smug and self-centered. He has a raging superiority complex that he makes no attempt to hide. Irene Adler even suggests that he believes in a higher power — himself. It's not so farfetched. Being as clever as he is, he's frequently frustrated by the simple-mindedness of the average person, and he isn't shy about saying so.
More often than not, he's offending people, whether accidentally or intentionally. Not only does he get under their skin by picking up on so many little personal details (often ones that they'd rather he missed, like a married man's cologne on a woman who's not his wife), but he either doesn't possess or doesn't utilize any manner of tact. The result is a cliché — the socially inept supergenius with almost no interpersonal skills whatsoever. He can often miss social cues, and doesn't tend to express the full range of emotions that most people do, but he's skilled at faking it, when he's prepared.
And while he may not seem to have any consideration for other people's feelings, that's only partially the truth. Strangers don't matter to him, but he's quite capable of growing attached to the people who are patient enough or unfortunate enough to put up with him, and who show him loyalty in return. Those people he loves are subject to a fierce and sometimes violent protection when the need arises; he tortures a man and throws him from a window for harming his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, of whom he's quite fond.
As a friend, he's certainly difficult. He has a bad habit of inadvertently wounding those close to him, through indifference, carelessness or a callousness that borders on cruelty. He is not, however, without remorse. When he realizes he's hurt Molly Hooper, he's quick to apologize, even in front of their other friends, and even gives her a kiss on the cheek. Though he doesn't show it much, he's clearly capable of caring and kindness, and an all but unshakable loyalty — [he will go so far as to fake his own death in order to save the lives of the people he loves].
Strengths/Weaknesses:
✔ He's fucking clever. He can get from point A to point B faster than the above-average bear. He puts together information in neat little mental jigsaw puzzles. He's got your number.
✔ He's highly observant. All the abductive reasoning in the world won't do shit if you don't notice the little things. Very little escapes Sherlock's notice.
✔ He has excellent memory. He's said that he uses his brain like a hard drive; information only leaves it when he deletes it to make room for more. He also utilizes specific recall methods to ensure nothing gets lost.
✔ He's physically capable. We've seen him win swordfights, he knows how to use a gun, he seems to be fit (and does a fair bit of running around). In short, he can (mostly) take care of himself.
✔ He's a convincing actor. When the situation calls for it, he can summon up believable tears, grief, fear, embarrassment and even alacrity.
✘ He's socially inept. He doesn't have much in the way of interpersonal skills, doesn't connect well with people and finds it hard to relate to them.
✘ He's kind of a dick. Between speaking without any thought toward others' feelings and speaking with thought toward others' feelings (and doing it anyway), he doesn't make a lot of friends.
✘ He thought the Sun orbited the Earth. That is to say, when Sherlock deems certain knowledge unnecessary, he simply... discards it. Forgets it completely. And then he looks like a moron.
✘ He's not infallible! Even at his own game, he doesn't always win. He can be outsmarted, and he can (and does) miss things — he says himself that 'there's always something' he gets wrong.
✘ He has vices. Between a dormant cocaine problem, a driving need for mental stimulation and an addiction to nicotine, he does have some rather large chinks in his armor.
Pokémon Information
Affiliation: Breeder.
Starter: Lillipup.
Password: Raspberry lemonade! ♥
Samples
First Person Sample: New Bark Town: population negligible. Hardly a town; 'village' might be more accurate. Scattering of houses highly similar in build (likely manufactured) and a laboratory of some sort. The laboratory doors are locked, and the scientist in the center of the town is singularly unhelpful.
The house I awoke in: modest, well-kept, occupied by a woman calling herself 'Mom.' (Possible sign of mental instability; more likely an affectation meant to be endearing. It isn't.)
Bedroom: frequently traveled, rarely used. Many different occupants, yet bare of any personal touch. Window hasn't been opened in months, closet empty, bedsheets fresh. Perhaps renters? Perhaps not. 'Mom': quite anxious to see me go. Promptly put me out on the stoop with supplies and a puppy.
Climate: not right for England this time of year. Locals claim the date is March 4th, two weeks ago. (Elaborate prank? Not likely. Mycroft is busy, and I haven't been drugged or knocked around the head, either.)
Mobile: no signal. Data intact. Battery nearly full, but no way to charge it. May as well turn it off.
This music is grating, and the town appears to have nothing left to offer but a remarkably large number of people wandering about looking lost. (Social experiment? Reality programme? No sign of cameras, arrival here still inexplicable.)
Will proceed westward on Route 29, the only viable exit from the town.
Update: The puppy refuses to leave my side. Fiercely protective, for not coming as high as my knee. I suppose there's no helping it.
Third Person Sample: "Diglett!"
Sherlock's brow knit sharply. The little mole-creature disappeared into its dirt mound once again: twenty or more centimetres of body vanished into a scrounging of dirt not more than two handfuls, less than half the height of the thing itself.
It had been easy enough to explain at first: the creature was subterranean, traveling beneath the ground. That possibility, however, went out the window when he came into the inn lobby this afternoon to find his newest acquisition bobbing cheerfully in and out of sight... on a sofa.
"Dig!" it repeated. Grating alacrity. Either it had no inkling of its own impossible existence, or it simply didn't care. Sherlock was banking on the latter. The Diglett had always been cheeky.
Rising from his crouch, he approached the sofa and waited for it to reappear. The instant it did, he snatched at it with both hands — and missed entirely.
"Good luck," a man said, drawing Sherlock's attention to the reception desk. "They can pull their heads underground at the speed of light!"
"... Of course they can. Why not, after all? If Pidgeots can fly at Mach Two and Gardevoirs can create black holes—"
He was interrupted by the Diglett's saucy "Dig!" as it showed its face again. When he made no move to grab it this time, the Diglett lingered above the surface of the cushions, watching him with discerning eyes. Sherlock crouched beside the couch, level with its gaze.
"And a Magcargot's body is heated to eighteen-thousand degrees Fahrenheit," he went on as the Diglett bobbed, "then it follows entirely logically that a Diglett could pop underground at the speed of light.
"Of course, if it were logical, it would be the first logical thing to happen here. Only the transplants to this world seem to even take note of the sheer implausibility of the native flora and fauna. The locals carry on cheerfully ignoring these fallacies."
He paused a beat, peripherally aware of the desk clerk slowly going back to his business. The Diglett rose a few centimeters.
"Diglett?"
"Perhaps the 'locals' were once transplants themselves. It could be a gradual brainwashing process, an incongruous reality impressed upon individuals made vulnerable through isolation from the outside world."
There was something wrong with that finding, and he knew it. The Diglett, inexplicably (so many inexplicable things before lunch today), seemed to realize it, too. It scrunched its large, pink nose.
"... And yet, here you are, and across the room, there, is a rodent that discharges electricity, and upstairs, there's a man down the hall with a dog that breathes fire. There's much more to this place than a simple experiment, though I won't rule out brainwashing, based on the behaviour of the so-called locals."
The Diglett disappeared once more, only to reappear with, of all things, a coin. Presumably, it was retrieved from the depths of the sofa. Sherlock allowed the creature to deposit the coin in his hand, and turned it over in his fingers as he spoke.
"It would appear that we've exhausted all explanations, save for one: that this world, with all its anomalies, simply exists." He palmed the coin. If he accepted that as the truth (as the only remaining possibility, however improbable), he was left with a new challenge altogether: understanding the science that this world operated on. It was, in its own right, a satisfying conclusion.