sirenspull_logs | Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi

Who: Sherlock Holmes and whoever else!
When: Around noon, Sunday the 20th
Where: The Church of Jonova
Summary: Sherlock wants answers about the outbreak of the mysterious flu, and he's hoping this curious healing mass will provide a few clues.
Warnings: None as of now.

The epidemic had begun barely a week before, and already nearly half the city seemed to be in its thrall. Clearly, this wasn't an ordinary sickness. Despite its flu-like symptoms, it wasn't the proper season for incubating those kinds of contagions. Other than being contagious, there didn't seem to be a common thread among those who contracted it, except most young children were healthy. That didn't make sense; illnesses victimized those with weak immune systems, typically the very young and the very old. If it didn't have to do with immune systems, there had to be something more to this. The rumors of SERO's involvement needed to be taken with a grain of salt-- AGI would jump at any opportunity to smear them, though this did have the earmarks of something engineered.

What Sherlock decided was worth investigating was the Church of Jonova's mass healing prayer service. It looked fairly innocuous, but to him, it was rife with suspicion. Why, if the church wished to do the island a service, was it asking to gather all the sick in one place without a quarantine? It was just asking for farther spread of the disease. Ignorance was a possibility, but Sherlock decided to go regardless. If anything, he could maybe get a few leads from talking to the afflicted. So far he seemed to be immune.

The church itself didn't impress him. Despite the numerous deities-- self professed or otherwise-- that were part of the Newcomer community, the native world of Siren's Port had just as much evidence of a higher power as at home. Namely, none. However, the crowds at the church were more compelling. How many people were so desperate for a cure that they turned to faith over medicine? Or how many, like him, were just looking for answers?

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Irene resists rolling her eyes, looking down at him instead with incredulity. She would take that as a personal challenge, but then again, he was practically offering it to her as one.

"There's always a first for everything," she counters, tone slightly laced with innuendo. But she's absolutely serious. She had the pleasure of claiming such things, especially as the one woman who beat him. His defiance was only all the more encouraging.

"I know," she says, leaning her weight on her free hand and dipping down to press her lips to his forehead. She lets his curls fall back down as she soon draws back. "Just refrain from sulking, it's not an attractive look."

Surprisingly, most of all to himself, Sherlock seems to now be used to Irene's small tokens of affection. He feels a bit of heat rise in his neck, but he stays calm. Ever defiant, he burrows deeper into his sheets.

"I'll do my best to maintain my poise when I get the flu in the future," he grumbles. "And are you always going to be making bedside visits like this?"

Sherlock feels like this has become a sort of meeting place, which is odd. And as he feels sleep starting to claim him again, he wonders if it's a good idea to always let her leave without a watchful eye.

"I don't know," Irene muses, pretending to think about the question. Her lips curve up briefly. "Would you like me to?"

Silence filters in. Her eyes remain fixed to Sherlock's with a steady and penetrating look, determined to keep their shared gaze before sleep completely grabs hold of him. It strengths to communicate something, almost the opposite of her tone moments ago -- something immense, something terrible, like it was looming over them. He should understand (they spoke better without words).

She isn't certain how long they stay like that, but she is the one who breaks the connection, wordlessly sliding away and putting her feet back into her shoes near the side of the bed. She clears her throat, reverting back to her previous question, "Careful though, you wouldn't want to get addicted."

Sherlock looks up at her, and his frown softens with veiled concern. It doesn't take much to know what she's thinking. Irene Adler enjoys a bit of danger, but she doesn't want to play with Jim Moriarty anymore. Escaping him, however, is not as simple as gaining the desire. He wants to tell her not to meet with him, but that could even be more dangerous than accepting his invitation.

But he'll protect her. It's weak and it's sentiment, but Sherlock knows he will. And if Irene's anywhere near as good as she always seems to be, she'll know, too. He sits up a bit again when he feels her weight ease off the mattress.

"I'm familiar with addictions. Easier to kick than you'd imagine."

Which is, of course, a bluff.

Irene knows. She bet her life on that fact once, and she would continue to do so as long as they remained here. Sentiment, as much as she would disagree, was also a valuable strength in this case. But the stakes were very high and it could easily cost the game; they had to be careful — all of them. His mirrored gaze told her he understood the warning.

"There are no patches for me, unfortunately," she notes, voice not betraying any of their earlier shared thoughts as she checks her phone. She taps on the keypad briefly before pocketing it again. Then her hand rests on the door knob, pausing one more. "Feel better, Mr. Holmes."

There's no chance for a retort. The Woman is already gone.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi

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what am i writing anymore

BEAUTY

/dead cat