milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

There was a neurotic professional killer inna bar. You might have thought he was new, as little as he's there, but no. His mun is simply terrible and neglectful. ~~Blame the Woobie.~~

Martin sat at the end of the bar, all in black, a glass of scotch before him, appearing surprisingly calm. He was humming a bit of something by the Clash under his breath.

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Look! There's another Martin! Whether or not he's a killer remains to be seen, but he suddenly sitting beside his new "friend" and staring at him curiously.

The guy had sat down beside him rather quickly, and Martin jerked back in his seat a bit, his hand going instinctively inside his jacket and resting just over his gun.

"Hi there," he greeting, eyeing the guy warily. "Nice outfit. Is that off the rack?"

"Hi there!" Martin says cheerfully. "Can you do this?"

He curls up his tongue like the diagram in Aziraphael's Cosmo magazine showed him.

"I think I was out sick the day they taught that," Martin replied. "That's a real talent, though. You should market it."

"I think someone's already doing that. I read about it in a magazine." So it must be true! "I'm Martin."

He holds out a hand, still encased in a very, very long sleeve, but he's not buckled up or anything.

Martin blinked.

This is a sign.

He grasped what he thought was the guy's hand through the sleeve and gave it a shake. "Funny, I'm named Martin, too. Maybe there's some sort of cosmic signifcance there, or maybe it's just one of those completely arbitrary coincedences that reminds you that there is a God. Except I don't really think I'm convinced of that regardless."

"I don't know about any God. I don't even know about me," Martin says. "Is your last name Miggs, too? THAT would be significant, 'cause that would mean I found myself."

"No, my last name is Blank," Martin answered. "Although I'm not sure last names are entirely significant to finding oneself, if we're speaking philosophically rather than literally."

"Are you sure? I don't really know much of anything about myself before the minute I came through the door. When I'm here, I know stuff, but I don't know where I go when I leave."

...

"Do you know where I go when I leave?"

There might be a hint of suspicion in his tone now.

"No. I am not all-knowing," Martin replied drily. My best guess is a nut house.

"Do you know someone who is?"

"No, but I bet if you look around here long enough, you'll find one."

"what do they look like?" Martin asks eagerly. "Cause I'm starting to wonder if I exist."

"Not knowing any of them, I don't know what they look like. I don't even really know if anyone like that comes in here, but I figure if we've got dead people and dinosaurs, your odds are pretty damn good, all things considered. Better than, say, the lounge at LAX."

"THERE"S DEAD PEOPLE HERE?" Martin looks around with wide eyes. "And dinosaurs?"

He slides to the floor and makes as small a target of himself as possible, on top of the other Martin's feet.

"I don't even want to know was LAX is!"

"Ooookay then," Martin said, attempting to extract his feet with little success. He slid from his stool and inched away. "Really, it's alright," he added, eyebrow arched. "Are you in therapy?" You should be.

"Therapy?" Martin asks timidly. His voice is probably muffled, with his arms over his head that way. "What's Therapy? I thought this was a bar!"

Holmes isn't the social sort, but perhaps he's drawn unconsciously to scotch.

Regardless of the cause, he sits one seat down the bar from the man in black ~~but not that one~~, and orders up his own scotch, taking a moment to light a cigarette.

Martin doesn't smoke. It's not good for one's constitution. Nevertheless, he was used to bars, and so didn't make a remark about second-hand smoke or any of the number of health issues raised immediately to mind. That would just be petty.

He gave the guy a short nod of greeting.

Given his Victorian sensibilities, Holmes might outright laugh at the idea of secondhand smoke, so it's just as well. He casts a sideways glance at Martin, looking him briefly up and down, then nods in return.

"Sir."

"Hi there," Martin replied, shaking his glass a bit and then taking a sip.

"Good evening," Holmes replies after a moment, taking another drag from his cigarette before speaking again. "And pray tell, what time or world or peculiar alternate universe are you from, hmm?" he finishes in the driest possible tone. He's heard about so many in the last three days that he might be in danger of quite mixing them up.

He likely shouldn't give a damn. After all, none of them have the slightest thing to do with the intensive study of crime.

"Earth, 1997," Martin replied. "Yourself?"

"London, 1889."

A pity, really, that no one else here seemed to share both his time and his world. Not that Britain under Victoria's rule is the greatest nation of the planet--except that truly, it is--but he rather misses the quiet pleasantries of English sensibilties, while he's here.

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