AU Week

[mightbeagoodone]

[Fabulous, glamorous, and covered in glitter.]

The door to the bar opens to the sound reporters jabbering and photo shutters clicking, and in sweeps Sherlock Holmes.

He's made up, dressed up, and wearing platform heels that make his already six-foot figure even taller.

(He looks amazing. He knows it.)

Press conferences are exhausting. Thank goodness he can get away for a bit in an intergalactic bar.

Comments

[just_cant_lose]

And following hard on his heels, someone who couldn't be arsed to go to the press conference at all. Because they're exhausting, and boring, and he had better things to be doing - and besides, Sherlock looks amazing enough to keep their attention long enough to distract from the fact Jim Moriarty was off having fun elsewhere.

He's not wearing platform heels. He's wearing black feathers on a skin tight shirt, with a blue glitter jacket slung over one shoulder; smoking a fag with one hand, and holding the neck of a guitar in the other. He comes up next to Sherlock, surveys the place for a second, then holds the cigarette out.

'Drinks, I reckon.'

[mightbeagoodone]

[ooc: OMG the icon!]

Sherlock takes the cigarette and has a drag. "To start with." He taps the cigarette against his little finger fretfully. "I've got a holder back at the hotel."

[just_cant_lose]

[OOC: Birdland is a blessing in so many ways. :D]

'Sure you'll manage.'

Jim closes his eyes and sways his head from side to side for a few seconds, floating nicely, fingers picking silent notes over the frets. Then he clicks his fingers at a rat and wanders to a sofa, draping himself elegantly along it.

'I've got the good coke. Did you tell them we're going on tour?'

[mightbeagoodone]

"I'm sure I will, too." He drapes himself elegantly along Jim. If Jim didn't want to be Sherlock's body pillow, he would not have arranged himself so invitingly. Yup. Logic!

"I did, and there were questions about dates and venues and what-not. Boring. Nobody wants to talk about the interesting things, like the music." He holds the cigarette in front of Jim's mouth, offering it back.

[just_cant_lose]

It's logic he can get next to, even flying about three miles above the earth. So there's a grin, and he takes a drag straight from Sherlock's fingers, looping the guitar strap over both of them so he can play it across Sherlock's body.

'You mean not one of them asked politely horrified questions about how we're corrupting the youth of today? They're slipping. Or Mycroft's got them on a tighter leash than normal.'

[mightbeagoodone]

"Oh, they asked about that, too. The usual -- are we really lovers, how dare we be gay in public, et cetera -- also boring."

He has a drag. One enormous shoe taps along to Jim's playing.

[just_cant_lose]

It is boring. Jim ignores it, and hums a soft melody against Sherlock's ear, picking chords that rasp quiet, but rough.

'I was writing a new song.'

If there was an excuse needed for him not being there. Which there probably is, despite the fact he's rarely there.

'But then I got high, and could only remember the words to Stairway to Heaven.'

[notyourproblem]

As soon as he's able to, Mycroft sneaks in as well. It's all so hateful - especially the press. He doesn't even know why he does it.

What he needs is a drink, and an enormous basket of chips to take his mind off of all of it.

"I can't believe you'd rather be doing this than literally anything else," he complains in Sherlock's general direction.

[mightbeagoodone]

[ooc: I CAN'T EVEN WITH THAT ICON.]

"What? Being a musician?"

[notyourproblem]

Mycroft takes a deep breath. "If that's what we're calling it."

It's not music. But he apparently gets no say.

[mightbeagoodone]

"My dear brother," Sherlock says as he slings a leather-clad arm over Mycroft's shoulders, "the music enables a lifestyle, and the lifestyle is the entire reason.

"Do loosen up. You'll be less bored if you'd just enjoy yourself."

[notyourproblem]

Mycroft rolls his eyes. Luckily, his chips arrive quite quickly, and Mycroft immediately stuffs one into his mouth.

"Now I'm enjoying myself."

He's never going to get this lifestyle obsession of Sherlock's, but at least he's gone past trying to talk him out of it. Mostly.

[mightbeagoodone]

"A fleeting happiness," Sherlock observes.

[i_am_your_host]

At the noise coming through the open door, Emcee looks up from the magazine he's reading (a 1954 issue of Time with Gina Lollobrigida on the cover) in time to see...

Well. All of this going on right there.

And he's very disappointed that nobody told him it was the 1970s somewhere else.

"Hal-lo, darling," he says with a wry twist to his lips.

Emcee isn't very glam these days. Blue jeans, Converse, sleeveless t-shirt. Also silvery gray hair and thick-rimmed glasses. Visually he could be from any time, really, but he remembers his younger days in Milliways when he discovered disco.

Time is funny.

[mightbeagoodone]

"Hello, darling," Sherlock says and lounges elegantly (and loudly, the heels are like instruments themselves) in the chair nearest Emcee.

"How goes it in your corner of the multiverse? Greenwich village, isn't it?"

[i_am_your_host]

Emcee's lips split in a grin as he unabashedly ogles Sherlock's entire process of walking over and settling himself in a chair. It's a show in itself.

"Just marvelous," he purrs, his German accent lapsing into prominence for a moment before it's tempered again. "And yes, Greenwich Village. How did you know?"

[mightbeagoodone]

"I'm very clever."

He relents a bit, though, and says, "There's a kind of dirt on your shoe indicative of that particular borough."

[i_am_your_host]

Emcee just smirks.

"Or let's face it, really, I'm a flaming bohemian, where else am I going to live?"

[mightbeagoodone]

"I hear San Francisco is lovely," Sherlock says, and holds out his hand for a shake. "Sherlock Holmes. London, 1972."

[thewidewideworld]

{Millitimed to after his arrival and recovery?}

Sin is curled up on a couch by the fire, his golden hair drying into curls. He spots the man and his wonderfully glam look and can't help but smile.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock returns the smile, with a touch of distance -- he's used to being recognized -- but not entirely unfriendly.

Milliways is not the kind of place he'll get mobbed, after all.

[thewidewideworld]

Sin should look away. It would only be polite, but it takes him a moment. There's something fascinating in the man's aloofness.

But eventual he does, toying with the silver and purple medic-alert bracelet around his wrist. Without thinking about it, he starts humming, and then singing Ziggy Stardust to himself. In a perfectly lovely voice.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock knows the song, of course -- what glam rocker worth their makeup brushes wouldn't? -- and he smiles to himself. He starts singing too, soft, his voice deep, in counterpoint.

[thewidewideworld]

Sin looks up, his pretty eyes alight at the sound and lifts his voice a little louder. For the pleasure of sharing the song with the man.

Dressed in a soft green tee-shirt that seems to drift off on shoulder and comfortable linen pants, he looks for like a flower child that a glam rocker but the ideal of androgyny the Glam era so loved.

He can't help but beam at the man as the song comes to it's natural end. "You have a wonderful voice."

[mightbeagoodone]

"Thank you. So do you. Do you sing professionally?"