Baaaaaaaaaaaaah Humbug

[death_gone_mad]

Morning comes and the sun reveals that out back there is a giant yule goat, made of thin strips of timber and palm leaves. Only in Milliways will you find a yule goat covered in palm leaves gathered from a tropical place, standing in the middle of a snowy environ.

It stares at Milliways. It judges.

Inside, at a table beside a window with a view of Milliways' huge 'backyard' or whatever it is, is one Sarah Black, drinking coffee and watching snow accumulate on the goat. She is dressed warmly and the meltwater around her boots implies she has been outside recently, but probably just to get a closer look at the goat.

Probably.

Comments

[hello_freak]

He takes his time, circling the goat, gauging the amount of material used and whether or not an accelerant would actually be required. The structure lends itself to oxygenation, so he doesn't think it would.

It's impossible to tell gender from the print itself. He does note that the boot prints, large and small, share the same wear pattern. Someone has been playing fast and loose with the laws of physics. He clasps his hands behind his back, and checks the shoreline in his peripheral vision. It would be a glorious sight, wouldn't it.

click, SHUCK, click, SHUCK

[death_gone_mad]

It would! It very much would!

Sarah is still inside, but now she is glued to the window, grinning ear to ear.

The waitrats, in the meanwhile, are trying to get her attention.

Breakfast is served, lady!

Shush you, she smells of cats, maybe it is better she isn't paying attention. Just set the food down and let's go.

[hello_freak]

click.

He really should go inside and get a coffee.

SHUCK.

He should just turn his back and walk away, and put the idea out of his mind.

click.

He should go inside, get a coffee, wheedle one of the multiverse internet devices, check his feeds, maybe go upstairs and tidy his lab.

SHUCK.

Sherlock has never been good at doing what he should do.

[death_gone_mad]

Well, AmascutSarah is not going to be any help on that front. At least out there, and out of her range, Sherlock can be confident that she isn't the voice chant-whispering "Burn it! Burn it!"

That is, if he had any reason to suspect such a silly thing.

[hello_freak]

Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws the handful of straw he'd collected from the ground, along with the one long thin strip of palm fiber. It's only a matter of moments before he's wrapped a small bundle together, and fortified it with pocket lint.

Another casual circuit around the goat and another moment kneeling on the ground.

And then he walks back towards the bar, hands in his pockets, grinning like the devil himself.






A wisp of smoke rises from the base of the goat's hind legs.