sortinghat_rp | (no subject)

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This is perhaps the strangest hallucination I have ever experienced. Tactile is not generally a component nor do I tend to believe I've lived two different childhoods. Can't be H.O.U.N.D. and I haven't used. Lucid dreaming, perhaps? Most likely though in that case I have rather lost control. Very odd indeed, but then I do seem to harbor the belief that this book will populate itself with responses and that I'm at a school for learning magic. It hardly does to only call one thing odd when so much is absolutely ridiculous. But I believe it. That shouldn't be possible.

I'll have to consider carefully how to move forward from here. I'm not sure how but it could be Moriarty. Makes as much sense as anything.

[ooc - replies with not_a_hero. 4th wall breaking is A-Okay]

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[John visibly bristles at the use of the slur. It's been so long since he's heard Sherlock use the word, and it's jarring to hear it again. Disappointing and, yes, hurtful too.]

You do not get to use that word again just because you've got two memories mixed up in your head. I don't care what the other bit thinks of the situation, but I know part of you knows damn well what that word reminds me of. You haven't used it in a long time, and I'm not about to just let you start up with it again.

Understand?

[Sherlock arches his left brow. Well, that certainly did illicit an interesting response.]

It's only a word. It carries as much weight as you let it and nothing more. If you want to work in a wizard hospital, get used to slurs. The people who need you are often the ones who strike verbally. Passive aggressive response to helplessness, especially if at the mercy of someone they oppose but cannot deny--like the skills of a muggle-born healer for a pure-blood elitist. I'm intimately familiar with the type but no cry of freak or psychopath is going to make me behave in such a way as to lose my privileges in performing my work. You'd be better off learning to accept the word as merely an indicator of the stupidity of others.

Or, in my case, of a complete lack of concern towards the politically correct. You knew what I meant and knew I meant nothing by it. Stop choosing to be a defensive irritant.

[Nope, not gonna work, Sherlock. Sorry. John keeps his eyes pinned on Sherlock's. He's not backing down.]

I know I'll be called slurs from idiots if I get the job I want. If I've got a pureblood patient and they're a big enough moron to call the person trying to keep them alive a mudblood, or worse, then whatever. It doesn't matter. Once they're not my patient anymore, I'll never have to see or think about their ignorant arse again.

But you're my friend. And you're not an idiot, even if you're a stubborn prat most of the time. You know I was called that slur over and over when I was attacked, and though it just gets me angry when I hear some random idiot say it, you matter. You might not mean it the same way they did, but that sure as hell doesn't mean I have to just put up with hearing it from you.

Like you said, you don't care if others call you 'freak' or 'psychopath'. Would you feel the same way if it were me casually throwing those around at you?

[Sherlock half pouts. He hates it when John is right. Especially a seventeen year old John.]

Fair point. Fine. Apologies.

[John gives a brief, sharp nod.]

Accepted. Just keep it in mind.

[He stands up and allows a bit of the alert stiffness to drain from him.]

I'm going to see if I can get back into Hufflepuff. If I can, I'll check all my stuff and see if I wound up with any of the other John's things. I'll let you know if I find the gun, but I really do doubt it. When were you planning on heading to Hogsmeade?

Soon. Now's fine I suppose. If you can get in, then meet me at the inn at sundown. If you can't, meet me there earlier.

[He stands up. Trying to not still be grumpy. Got chastised ~_~]

[John arrives at the inn just before sundown. He successfully managed to get back into Hufflepuff, but even after thoroughly scouring his dorm, he found no signs of any of the other John's possessions. They really would be going in defenseless. He'd used the secret path to the Shrieking Shack to escape the school, and now he stands at the inn's entrance.

With a sigh, he pulls out his journal from his coat pocket to send a quick message.]

I'm outside the inn.

[Sherlock writes back almost immediately "so am I" and appears right behind John from his hiding spot in the shadows. He's smirks, more or less having forgotten all about their morning tiff.]

Ready to go then, are you? Come on. The night's young and so are you.

[He gestures for John to follow him as he starts to walk down the path towards the forest. He's for a box of matches and a few rolls of cloth in his pockets to fasten a torch out of once they get there.]

[John jumps a bit when Sherlock seems to come out of nowhere, but he recovers quickly. he nods at Sherlock's question and follows readily. This whole idea is stupid and dangerous and just all around not good, but he can't help the way his heart pounds in excitement as they make their way down the forest path.]

I looked everywhere and didn't find the gun or anything that could really be a useful weapon. The closest thing I have is a pair of scissors. I also brought some bandages just in case, but that's about it.

Then we'll just make sure we're quiet and don't disturb too many things in our exploration.

[He grabs a stick and wraps the cloth around the end, lighting it on fire. He waves it in front of them to light their way.]

It can't really be all that dangerous, you know. There are kids nearby.

[Even though they aren't in the forest yet, John is already on alert. He looks around frequently, trying to keep a handle on his surroundings.]

There's also a giant squid in the lake, which is also nearby. And inside the school itself? Stairways that change on you mid-step, which can send you down a flight of stairs. Oh, yeah, and how about all the poisons we work with in Potions class everyday?

I'm just saying the school and the grounds are covered in dangerous stuff, even if there are kids around.

I must say, I like the idea of a school that treats its students like intelligent human beings capable of avoiding danger.

[Which obviously does not include them. Sherlock continues to lead the way until they get to the forest.]

Any last requests?

[John racks his memory for what he'd learned about the sort of creatures that live in the forest.]

If we run into any centaurs, keep your mouth shut and let me try to talk us out of it. Unless you want your disrespectful speech to get you trampled by a giant man-horse.

Other than that, at least try to not get eaten by anything.

I intend to do far better than try.

[Sherlock will accept the whole rude mouth comment as it stands, however. He leads them in, holding back a few branches for John as they go.]

Did you notice the stars?

[John sticks close, ducking below branches and keeping his eyes open for anything unusual.]

No, I didn't think to look. Why? Navigation?

Unless you think you can tell the trees apart and recognize the way back out, yes. Not to worry, though. I'm rather good at this.

Travel through many dangerous magical woods, do you?

Dunno how much use the stars would've been anyway. We are talking about a dense, creepy forest. In Scotland. In a very damp part of spring. None of that really adds up to clear skies. We'd have been better off bringing something to leave behind, like Hansel and Gretel and their trail of breadcrumbs.

... I'm Hansel in this situation, for the record.

My memory of the story doesn't really hold favorably to that choice. You always do tend to default to the more traditionally masculine roles. I don't mind being Gretel, though.

[Sherlock climbed up some fallen tree, easily walking up the knobby wall of dead wood with his long legs.]

I'll find out footprints in the mud, then. We'll be fine. Or we'll end up spending the night. One way or another, yes?

Footprints might do. We'll really know to worry if you spot our tracks and they're accompanied by the prints of something strange.

[John attempts to climb up on his own, but no matter how valiantly he tries, his legs just aren't long enough to get good traction. He sighs in irritation.]

Think I'll need a leg-up.

[Sherlock looks down and sighs. Oh, John -_-

He walks back over to the side John's still on and offers him a hand.]

Try and pull yourself up.

[John scowls a bit.]

Don't give me that look. Not all of us can be 90% legs.

[Still, he grasps Sherlock's hand. Fortunately, it's just enough leverage to do the trick, and John manages to pull himself up.]

I'll keep that in mind should we find ourselves running in a hurry.

[He waits for John only long enough to see he won't need more help then is off again, looking up into the trees as well as down along the broken and dead things on the ground.]

Large things have moved through here. See how everything is broken up to waist level?

[It takes John a moment to right himself and brush himself off. By the time he looks back up, Sherlock is several paces away. He tries to quicken his pace to catch up, but Sherlock's remark distracts him. He looks down, noticing the destruction Sherlock mentioned.]

Yeah. Whatever made this mess had to have been pretty strong. What do you think it was?

Nearly impossible to tell just from this. Smaller than a centaur though so you can relax on having to play diplomat. Most likely four legged, though, given the path it carved through the twigs and undergrowth. Too tall to be a lizard and no drag marks from a tail. Mammal sounds likely. Most large mammals are vegetarians but I'm willing to bet there are plenty of wizard world beasts that go against that statement.

[John kneels, hoping to get a slightly better look.]

You're definitely right there. Underestimating the size and general nastiness of anything in this forest would be a terrible idea.

Do you think it came through recently?

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