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  • Bilbo Baggins: Caught up on a missed post Hera, your reply from Bilbo is next promise <3
    June 27, 2020, 08:01:13 PM
  • Guiga: As for the old Lake-town plot. It was about a revolt against the Master by the people due to taxes and such one year before the events of the movies. It was very interesting.
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    June 25, 2020, 12:55:28 PM
  • Guiga: I was wondering if I could reopen or restart from scratch that old plot about the rebellion against the Master of Lake-town we used to have a long time ago and which would be best. I’m not even sure how many inhabitants of Esgaroth we have in play anymore. I’ll have to look into it, but that was an interesting plot.
    June 25, 2020, 03:46:58 AM
  • Hera: Amarthal's lovely, dear. Thank you. Just one problem, you just killed Berthrien's whole family! Elladan would never leave her alone in the wilds after that. His talk to Elrond will have to happen a lot before I first imagined because he'd take her to Rivendell as soon as she was able to travel. Something I'll have to think about later.
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Author Topic: 221B, Baker Street  (Read 1729 times)

Barnabas

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221B, Baker Street
« on: April 28, 2014, 10:12:00 PM »
ooc: I decided the decade that Sherlock Holmes was originally written for was a good place to start. Modern times was too... over used for me. But if Victorian is not suitable for you, I can change some things around! If something isn't clear and you want to know what has gone on in a nutshell, I can try to describe it to you as best I can! :3 I hope you like it, Pip, and that it was worth the wait. And it is nice and long for ya! 2000+ words! If you need more to go off of, just let me know! Mrs. Hudson is getting tea as we speak! XD What monster have I created!?!?!

bic:

Moria. Barnabas had heard so much about the Orc ridden place that the stories he heard from the Dwarven caverns where he lurked intrigued him. It intrigued him so much that he figured a road trip to the ancient Dwarven mines was in order. Well, he had entered the Misty Mountains from the south, a snow storm was brewing in the east and was moving quickly down the mountain chain when he found the path that the Dwarves had mentioned. Darkness was settling in and it was getting colder. Damn the cold weather[/color] He thought as his wings beat against the wind and snow, occasionally finding a current to glide upon. Maybe I can find a cave to hide in for the night.[/color] After this thought the air became electrified and lightning cracked above him, dislodging a boulder. The crack of lightning still ringing in his ears, he tried to dodge the boulder by maneuvering left, but he wasn’t fast enough. The rock slammed into his right wing and the next thing the bat knew, he was spiraling out of control and smacked into the mountain side.
 
Barnabas hadn’t been expecting it, and he doesn’t like not expecting something. He felt himself falling downwards into the blackness. It seemed to go on forever! Down, down, down into a never ending black hole. If he knew what Alice in Wonderland was, he might compare it to that. He was Alice, falling through the rabbit hole not knowing where he was going to end up. Well, he sort of knew where he was going to end up. He was going to end up dead at the bottom of the mountain to be devoured by birds and other nasty creatures of lower intelligence. How degrading!
 
Everything was silent, except for the ringing in his ears. How long had it been there? And was he dead or was he unconscious? Was this what if felt like to be unconscious? Well of course it was! How could he have not known that? After all, he had only slept for thousands of years, perfectly preserved until a later time when he would be useful to his master. What was the difference between being unconscious and sleeping? Well, he was pretty sure that it all boiled down to his throbbing head and arm, which was probably broken.

The ringing in his ears steadily became more intense. It was difficult to hear anything, and when he tried to blink his eyes open to see, everything was black. He felt like he was falling. Well, it didn’t seem like he was dying! That was a good sign, at least he wasn’t dead. As Barnabas tried to pull himself out of his faint, something was wrong, very wrong.

The smell of earth was disguised by something different. Something he had never smelt before, and the sounds were as equally disturbing. He tried to blink his eyes open, but still there was darkness, and the ringing in his ears had turned into a thousand high pitched voices. Was he dreaming? The further he came out of his concussion, the more aware he was of his surroundings, and the dull aching throb in his head hadn’t ceased either. Forcing himself to blink some more, he hopped it would bring him to the friendly view of mountain feet, and those voices would pay for mocking him, whoever they were.

Finally! He was coming out of his comma, but what he saw was not what he expected, and in surprise he gasped for air like someone breaking to the surface after being underwater for too long. Everything was of a fuzzy yellow hue, with deep, fuzzy shadows around the edges. The noises were strange to his ears, at least some of them were, and strangely high pitched. In the distance he heard the clop of horse hooves on something hard, the ringing in his ears, which seemed to be coming from his head now, had also returned. Closer to him, he heard the sound of retreating footsteps. The coward![/color] He thought as he could start feel his limbs again.

Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes, you saved my life!” The voice was female, he could  tell that much, but the voice wasn’t… normal. Everything was still sharp and high pitched, his vision was still fuzzy, and the figure of a woman stood over him like a large, fuzzy giant. Turning his head, and realizing that wasn’t the best move, he blinked some more and saw a shadowy figure disappear around the corner of a long hallway... or was it a hallway? “Mr. Holmes?” The woman placed her hand on his shoulder gently, so gently he could hardly feel it. It was like she was afraid to touch him, and she should have been! As his vision cleared, so did the rest of his senses.

His head throbbed, and the smells were completely different. Was he in a cave? Or had he crash landed into a village that was propped on the foot of the mountain? And why did this woman insist that his name was Holmes? Who was the woman, anyway!? Where was he? Had he transformed in his unconscious mind and that is why this woman was so comfortable to be this close to him? His eyes still fixed on the end of the street, he didn’t look up until the woman placed a firm hand on his shoulder that said she was trying to gain his attention. “Are… are you alright, Mr. Holmes?” Her voice was quiet, it also had a strange accent. Her hair was blonde in the light of the street lamp, and done up in a strange fashion, but looked a bit messier than what he assumed it had looked like before. Her throat was exposed, but the strange cloth she was wearing covered the rest of her body. Panic rose up inside of him and he pushed the woman away. She protested and managed to make himself stand, another bad idea since he needed the nearest alley wall to steady him while the cobble stone road swirled about in a mix of grays, earth colors and that blasted yellow street lamp! Street lamp? Breathing heavily as he tried to acquire his bearings, he gazed up at the strange metal contraption where the yellow light was emanating from.

Not waiting for the alley to stop moving, he bolted to the entrance where the strange shadowy figure had vanished, using the walls of the alley to keep him from falling on his face. Just before the entrance he tripped over a projecting brick and momentarily lost his balance, stumbling into the street where he fell, using his hands to catch himself before he did further injury to his face, and head. Chaos then ensued.

GET OUT OF THE ROAD, YOU FOOL!”, “CRAZY FOOL!”, “GET OUT OF THE WAY!” Dazed and confused, it wasn’t until a horse reared above him that he rolled out of the way and watched the carriage roll by.  Wait, a carriage!? What was a carriage, precious? Oh never mind! He heard another one of the things roll up on his right and he dodged left, and then dodged right. Then a strange metal container with people inside rolled by without the use of a horse. The loud noise that emanated from it threw Barnabas into a frenzy and he scampered out of the road as fast as he could, dodging horse drawn carriages and people selling things on the sidewalk. His eyes wide with fear he ran past the street marketers, knocking things over and pushing people out of the way he made his way down the street towards what looked like a wooded area. If he could make his way back to the forest, he would be safe. Concealed among the trees, and away from this strange chaos he happened upon.

It didn’t take him long to reach the park, his long legs allowed him to travel quickly over the ground, but once he reached the park he found it blocked off by a wall of brick and iron. What sort of Dwarvish trickery is this?[/b] He thought bitterly. Had they built this wall, with their crafty ways to keep him locked in this strange world? Muttering in frustration he paced the wall and tried to shake the iron free. (How silly he must have looked!) Unsure of which way to go he took off along the wall searching for an obvious entrance. When he found it, it was indeed obvious! Relieved he entered the wooded area and leapt into the air and watched the branches get closer, but then they got farther away and he landed awkwardly on the side of his foot and fell to the ground with an oof.

Scrambling to his feet he tried again and again. “Mr. … Holmes?” a voice, male this time, came from behind him and spun to find a strange man dressed in dark, heavy clothes with a strange hard hat upon his head. He was carrying a stick in his left hand, but his posture told Barnabas that he was prepared to take on this strange behavior with force if need be. Who was this person? Backing away from the officer slowly, still breathing heavily he turned on his heel and took off running. “MR. HOLMES!?” The officer cried out after him, but he did not pursue, at least that is what Barnabas thought. He followed the forest path to its end. There was another entrance, just as large as the one he had entered on the other side. When he looked around, something within him said it was familiar, even though to his eyes all of it was strange including the tall gas lamps, and the gas lamps that hung off the walls of the buildings, giving everything that strange yellow glare.

Panting he straightened himself up and walked in a direction that seemed  completely random, yet it was slightly familiar and he couldn’t figure out why so. He spoke to no one even though those who were out late greeted him either with friendly smiles or hostile, suspicious glares. Picking up his pace to a light jog he stopped at a small staircase and something unknown compelled him to walk inside, which he did… almost. Barnabas,[/i] He thought, What are you doing? This isn’t right.[/b][/color] Indeed, it was not right. Barnabas stood with his hand on the door handle, staring at the brass for a few seconds before looking at the door itself. The numbers read 221 B. What sort of significance did the numbers hold for him? But something about the place felt right, it felt comfortable. Gently turning the door handle, he stepped across the threshold not knowing what to expect.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” It was an elderly woman dressed in a cream colored nightgown and cap. Either she was getting ready to go to bed, or she was up and about late, or she was suspicious of him. A trap set by the Dwarves with the help of some dark magic maybe. All of this just because he wanted to go and see this Moria they had spoken of! “Mr. Holmes, I thought you had gone out for a walk.” She moved forward to touch him and he stepped back a look of surprise on his face, which made her stop. “I was only going to take your jacket, Sherlock.

What… what was this strange name? Sherlock Holmes? Mr. Sherlock Holmes? He was Barnabas, the last of his kind and servant of Sauron the Great! He devoured … well, let’s not go there, not now. Right now he needed an excuse to be alone and away from everyone so he could think! Putting on his most charming of smiles, Barnabas spoke for the first time since he arrived in this cursed place, wherever it was, “I apologize Mrs. …  Hudson. I am not quite myself tonight.” Mrs. Hudson? Who was that? That was the old woman in the nightgown. Another trick? Putting random names into his head to make him think he was a part of this world or something? Dwarves!

Mrs. Hudson smiled kindly. “Tea. I will bring you up a nice pot of tea. That will get you back to yourself again.” Mrs. Hudson picked up a candle from the hall table and lit it with a match before going off to the kitchen. “No, Mrs. Hudson. I will not be taking tea tonight. I have much to think about.” Barnabas replied, but Mrs. Hudson seemed to be hard of hearing and was through what he thought was the kitchen door before he could finish what he had to say. Poor Mrs. Hudson! Removing his hat, which he had no idea he had been wearing, he placed it on the coat rack in the hall way. It stood alone as he went upstairs and entered the door directly off the staircase landing.  

Was Barnabas alright? No. No he wasn’t. He was mad and he was angry. He wanted revenge on something he couldn’t even prove, but the idea that Dwarves were responsible for this was tugging at the edge of his mind. The next Dwarf he saw wouldn’t live to tell the tale even if they wouldn’t help him get out of this mess they put him in.
speech color code: 82271B

played by Hades

Bombur

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221B, Baker Street
« Reply #1 on: April 29, 2014, 02:08:00 PM »
"Go on watch." They said. "It's your turn!" They said. Nonesense! It was never in any sense Bombur's turn to go on watch; nor should he have been forced to do so! However, such was the will of Thorin that this injustice had been done. It wasn't enough that he cooked for them every day - Bofur taking the occasional turn for it; no Bombur had to sit out in the cold, with no fire to keep him warm; just an itchy old blanket that had been thrown at him in his objections. He took to a stone; which, from a distance had looked quite comfortable, in the sense that this stone was rounded off unlike the others with jagged and sharp edges that would have no doubt managed to pierce Bombur's skin, but how wrong he had been. This stone was neither comfortable, nor appealing anymore; the dirt looked more comforting than this stone felt. Nevertheless Bombur sat there; eyes gazing out into the darkness before him as he heard the others chatting away in hushed whispers in the cave that they had the comfort of. Bombur had little or no comfort to speak of.

It wasn't long before the words melted, and turned into sounds of sleeping dwarves. Oh how he wish he were asleep! Laid on the comfy stony floor of the cave and not sat on this stupid rock. He folded his hands on his overly large stomach; sighing heavily as the other dwarves fell into the world of dreams. Only the night before had Bombur had a wonderful dream; a dream that he was back at home with his wife and children, cooking away over a large pot; making food enough for an army, but only serving his family. He'd dreamt of sausages and stew; of beer and comfort, but there was no comfort to be found out here in the wild. It made him appreciate home a little more than he would should he have not taken to this adventure with Bofur. On the plus side it was more time spent with his sibling; who whilst was always welcome to his home, only did so occasionally. A long, arduous journey would always make one appreciate the little luxuries in life. It had not been long since he had reprimanded Bilbo for dwelling on comforts that he too started to miss his own. Even Rivendell had been a lot better than this mountain side they were on; and that was saying something!

He was drawn from his thoughts however, when he heard a large crack in the mountain-side, waking up just about every dwarf in the cave. Bombur looked up in time just to see a boulder come hurtling towards him, and flung himself backwards; towards the edge of the platform he'd been stood on. The edge crumbled under his weight, giving way and throwing him a few feat below him, his large head smashing against a smoothed rock below. He heard the shouts and cries of those above, but could not move, and instead, felt the heaviness of his eyelids control him; letting them slip shut. Little did he know he was unconscious; and little did he know what this would do to him for all he had seen above were clouds of darkness before his eyes had closed.

It had seemed like only five minutes or so before he heard the sound of a woman's voice, a startled shriek before the sound of... boots of some sort came hurtling towards him. "Darling! Darling can you hear me?" He groaned a little, wafting his fat fingers upwards, trying to get the woman to stop fussing... wait woman? His tried to blink his eyes open, but they would not focus. She did not sound like his wife, so he could only assume some man, elf or dwarf for that matter had stumbled upon the Dwarves of Erebor along the mountainside. "Darling!" The woman shrieked again, throwing her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. "What happened?" He groaned, trying to sit himself up, hand feeling the floor beneath him, but it wasn't a familiar floor. No this seemed to be... He blinked his eyes once more, looking at the stone beneath him set out as a path rather than the mountainside he had been on not too long ago. His eyes widened as he noticed that he was no longer wearing the dwarvish clothing he had once worn, and instead was in; well he didn't know what it was but he did not like it! Where was his ladle? His knives? He patted himself down heavily, but could not find anything of his own, just a horrible silk handkerchief and a small gold round thing with numbers on and arms. What on Earth was this contraption!

The woman that was knelt near him looked at him with suspicion and confusion all at once; drawing a lock of hair from her features to reveal the shape of her face. This was definitely not his dwarvish wife! Where was her beard for starters... where was his beard! He patted his chin, but no beard did he find. Where were his voluptuous ginger locks that had obviously been hacked from their holding place by some do-no-good fiend! This only made the woman more suspicious of him, wrapping her slender arms around his arms, trying to pick him up from the floor, but it was no use; Bombur would not budge. "Heaven's sake, John, what's gotten into you." He looked at her with an obscure look as she called him 'John' instead of Bombur, and yet, that name sounded overly familiar to him; as if he was used to being called that name, but the matter of the fact was, he wasn't used to it at all! "You must have hit your head hard, John. We'll need to get you to a doctor." A doctor? No he didn't need a 'doctor' that she spoke of, nor did he need her help!

"No!" He bellowed, picking himself up from the floor and dusting himself off, looking at the strange golden thing that was dangling from his pocket. "I'm late enough as it is, Mary" These words came out involuntarily, and who on Earth was Mary? He shook with annoyance as the woman rose, offering him his hat to place back on his head. He must have dropped it in the fall; Bombur, however, was frustrated and snapped it out of her hand and placed it atop his head. "Well; you don't want to be late then do you?" She offered with a polite smile, looking at her confused; for had he behaved like that with his own wife, she would have chased him around the kitchen for an hour or so, threatening him with the wooden spoon she always carried. She was a fiesty woman that wife of Bombur's; this... John or whoever he was, seemed to have a wife that behaved in a completely different manner. Perhaps it was she who had bumped her head and mistaken him; but it became quite clear that this was not the case as he headed off down the street, to only Durin knew where. He took his cane from her hands, and headed off down the street with it.

It was as if he'd walked this street before; for he knew the people that walked it, and the houses that stayed there; but they were nothing like the houses he knew. These were made of stone, and were tall, with light coming from them, from a candle or two perhaps; but the matter of the fact was, these people were weren't anything like he'd encountered before. They were dressed in funny clothes, and horses dragged carts rather than had people sit atop them. Wherever it was he'd landed, he was uncomfortable, frightened and lost. Where was Bofur? Bifur? Even Thorin would have done his fear some good right about now just to encourage him he was not insane! Perhaps he had taken a severe bump to the head, and was hallucinating - or even worse, perhaps he was unconscious. He allowed his feet to drag him down the stoney path, passing house after house after house before he came to an abrupt stop. His cane clattered down lightly on the stone before him, allowing Bombur to lean on it slightly was his deep brown eyes to examine the numbers on the wall; though, he could not read them - he knew what they said. 221B. What on Earth did B have to do with the number 221?

From what Bombur could figure out at present, it was quite late in the evening, he was supposed to be here at some point; whether it was now or later, but he was supposed to be here. He wandered up the steps slightly; picking his cane up and using the bulb on the top to tap on the door lightly, before allowing it to slip back down and tap the floor. There was clearly a hustle and bustle behind the door and eventually he was greeted by an older woman in her... dressing gown. She answered with a small smile and opened the door wide enough when she had, for some reason, recognised Bombur. "John! Come in! He's expecting you. I'm just making tea. Go on up, dear." He wandered in at her offer, eyes taking in the sight of the house around him. This was very different from what he was used to. Outside he had not know just how much, but the interior of this place just put it into perspective for him. "No tea for me, Mrs. Hudson." But, of course, the lady had not heard, and bustled away into the kitchen allowing the door to slip shut behind her before Bombur had chance to register what had just happened. Why did Bombur know the name of this lady? He didn't know her at all! This was far too strange for him to deal with, but deal with it he did.

Upon some 'natural' instinct, he headed up the stairs, finally taking a moment to realise that his feet were no longer weighed down by heavy shoes or any of that, no these shoes were black, and light, so Bombur didn't have to pick his feet up as much to get himself moving. 'Oh how strange this is all becoming!' he thought to himself as he moved slowly up to the stairs towards... what he didn't know; but whoever was up here was supposedly expecting him, and he too was unexpectedly expecting this meeting of sorts. He found another door blocking his path, and placed his hand on the brass knob of this door, entering an entirely other room.  He allowed the door to swing itself open as he wandered in; taking in the sights around him before he put his eyes on the gentleman that had been in the room before he. His first instinct was to ask who this man was, but he knew who he was. His... 'other' self knew him as Holmes or Sherlock. What peculiar names. Yet, all the same Bombur offered him a slight smile, whether or not this was comforting in any sense, was not apparent, but hopefully this man bore the answers that Bombur needed.

"Have you read the news today, Holmes?" He said, looking away from the the other man in the room, without really thinking about it, for some reason only remembering now he had a... parchment? in his pocket and placed it on the table, pointing his fat chubby finger towards the headline which read 'Bank Robbed; No Evidence Found.' He didn't even know what that meant, but apparently the person he was currently 'inhabiting' did. As if it was natural, Bombur took to a chair in the room, seating himself before the fireplace; pulling out his pipe, and lighting it up without another moments thought. He still had that comfort - that was something to say the least. He missed his itchy old blanket, he missed that comfortable looking but not so comfortable rock. He missed the snoring of the dwarves whilst they slept and he had to sit out in all kinds of weather. Like Bombur said - you don't miss things until you are thrown into an even worse situation, and this, whilst it wasn't really proving any harm for him, was indeed, a worse situation. Confusticate and bebother it! Whatever kind of dream this was; he wanted out - but he could not bring himself to pinch his own arm. For one reason or another, he was stuck here until such a time an escape route was presented to him, but no such escape route had reared its precious head. He would take goblins and orcs over this bothersome situation at any rate, for orcs and goblins he could bash back with his ladle, yet here, he was weaponless - unarmed, and defenseless. These were things that Bombur did not much like to think about. "I can't quite put my finger on it!" He piped up after a few moments of silence, but what he couldn't put his finger on - he was 100% sure. Whatever it was - it was troublesome and worrying to John... No Bombur. "Go on watch." They said. "It's your turn." They said. Oh how he wished he'd protested this fact a little more.
Played by Pip!

Barnabas

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221B, Baker Street
« Reply #2 on: May 16, 2014, 11:13:00 PM »
ooc: Ah! I hope it is good enough! Do you want to lead Lestrade into the rp? I haven't seen Marbys... D= Hmm, I wonder how many people should be fired. Perhaps we should leave that up to Marbys?

bic:
Staring out the window of 221B, Barnabas could see the street below him. It buzzed with evening traffic and the mind he was competing with told him what everyone was doing and where they were going. Of course a mind like that didn’t come easily. All the hard ships, the times with his brother and trying to please his mother and father… all these memories seemed to be his, and yet they were alien to him. The unwillingness to let his mind give in and become this person he was not was proving to be quite a struggle! I shall not become this man.[/b][/color] Barnabas thought, reminding himself that who he was, was not this person he was unconsciously turning into.

Moving the sheer over so he could see the people more clearly, Sherlock continued to watch and observe. His job required that he used his peculiar ability often. But there was something else he was watching for. A familiar figure came to mind, the figure of the good doctor who had been his flat mate before he married Marry, a sweet girl, good for the good doctor. Lifting his eyes from the sidewalk in front of his home at 221B, to looking further down the street he waited for the familiar sight of his pudgy friend. Once he saw the man coming he would make ready. It wasn’t all the time that he got to see his friend and colleague Doctor John Watson! The crimes and mysteries they solved together were absolutely invigorating and kept him from getting too bored. Of course, Lestrade always kept him entertained with small matters, but they were small. It was annoying and bothersome. He needed something more, something to really get him going, to excite him!

On impulse Holmes turned from the window and proceeded to light the lamps. Mrs. Hudson worked hard enough as it was, lighting the lamps and bringing up the tea was too much for the elderly woman. But,[/b][/color] Barnabas thought, Why should I care so much about an elderly woman I hardly know?[/color] These were the questions that were not getting answered. All he knew as that he was in the body of Sherlock Holmes. The man who knew everything before people knew it themselves! It was incredible! But John was due here any moment, he was hardly ever late. Wait, who is John Watson? Another Dwarvish trick! Placing people in his life that he didn’t know, making him think that he did know who they were! He picked up a news paper, the same one he had read this morning, and glanced at the headlines once more. “A Bank robbery.” He muttered, placing the news paper in the trash bin beside the table.

The details were simple. No sign of breaking in, no sign of getting out. ‘Then how did the money disappear, Mr. Holmes?’ asked the banker who was in a nervous wreck. He was young, fresh out of the university. The bank was well known in central London, so it was understandable why they picked Mr. Peter Fuller. He was of common place, he worked hard at University and was the best in his class. His clothes told Holmes that he was well paid, but the condition of his shoes said that he liked to walk to work and back. The carriage that brought him from his home in London was an expense he obviously didn’t want to pay. He wasn’t married, but the lipstick on his cheek (which had been smeared in an attempt to make himself presentable for Mr. Holmes) said he had an intimate lady friend, and the delicate smell of a flowery perfume was distinguishable above the smell of tobacco that always lingered in the room. “I cannot say until I have had a closer look, Mr. Fuller.” Holmes had responded, it seemed to put the banker at ease for a bit just knowing that someone was handling the case.

After Holmes was finished lighting all the lamps and setting up a place for Watson to sit in his usual place, at the dining table, he returned to the window and let his thoughts consume him. The bank provided many explanations, all so simple that it was incredible nobody thought to think of them. I should have known better than to go in there with that line of thinking.[/i][/color] Holmes thought, er, rather Barnabas critiqued. He had let himself go, he had let this strange man’s thought mingle with his and Barnabas felt he was slowly losing himself. A neat trick the Dwarves set up. But a desire to know what the strange man had found was simply too strong. Staring out the window in no particular direction he allowed the strange man’s thoughts to unfold.

He asked the banker if he had gotten the Police involved yet, and he answered honestly, ‘No. But the bank has.’ So, Mr. Peter Fuller wasn’t the manager of the bank, but an employee. He moved up, that was clear now. Of course! The shoes are not new.[/color] Barnabas thought, Just the clothes. That says he’s moved up, but the shoes say just recently. The man is in debt, but he did not to me to discuss his debts.[/b][/color] Of course, that was completely irrelevant to case at hand. “So Why come to me?” He asked as he leaned back in his chair and puffed on his pipe. “Because you are the only one who can help.” How dull. The only one who can help? “I’ll take your case, Mr. Fuller.” Sherlock said, setting his pipe aside and rising to shake hands with the banker, who looked relived before going out the door. But just as he was about to close the door Mr. Fuller turned, “So, you will come to the bank today?” Sherlock nodded and closed the door.

Later that afternoon he told Mrs. Hudson that he would be out late and not to expect him home for dinner, which had been so. The bank, what did you find at the bank!! Barnabas demanded of the mind of Sherlock Holmes. But there was nothing more to give, at least not yet. Turning to face the door that lead into the study, Barnabas knew who was coming up the stairs. The door handle turned and in walked the strange, yet familiar figure of John Watson. Barnabas watched this fellow’s every move. He had walked here, and he was developing a bump on the back of his head, he had fallen? ‘John Watson’ placed a parchment on the table and remarked upon its contents, “Have you read the news today, Holmes?” In a calm thoughtful voice, and quite on impulse, Holmes responded, “Yes. A Mr. Fuller came to visit me earlier.” Moving away from the window, Homes went to the fire place and stared into the flames for a bit before turning to his friend. “A young man, very informative. Apparently the bank had been losing money steadily for the past four months.” Holmes then moved across the room and sat in the chair opposite Dr. Watson. The good Doctor would want to hear the details of his trip, and so without being asked he proceeded.

Watson. It was the most amazing thing that the solution could only be what I have devised. There was no sign of a break in anywhere. Remember the last time someone tried to break into the Bank of London, Watson, they tunneled under the bank and came up through the floor? This is simply not the case. So I asked to look at the records the bank keeps. Our young visitor is responsible for keeping the records in order, and he has kept them well! The strangest thing is, the amount of money that was being taken from the bank was not being logged. I asked the bank manager to see a record of the people they had fired.

Reaching into his pocket, Barnabas – er – Holmes, pulled out a paper he had taken (to examine) that had the names, home addresses and dates (that the people were fired on) of these people.

What do you make of it, Watson?” Barnabas was silent as he watched and waited for ‘Watson’ to make his deductions. Growing impatient with his “friend” he pressed Holmes to move forward with what he had found. “I found, Watson, that the dates all of these people were fired there was a two to three day halt between robberies. Now tell me that is not interesting! I spent all day at the bank looking over past records and the most current records. There is no telling when the robberies occur, but I have asked Mr. Fuller to report to me with anything he might find strange and out of the ordinary. The slightest detail shall not escape should not escape us as we investigate the matter entirely. It is clearly someone who is still employed at the bank making these robberies, Watson, and I have a feeling that Lestrade will have more information for us on the fired bankers.” You see, Holmes had sent the list of fired men to Lestrade to investigate with strict instructions not to leave anything out. The smallest detail could be the turning point in the case just as much as the larger ones.

Sitting back in the chair, Barnabas was growing quite comfortable with the body he was inhabiting, but eventually he knew that he was going to have find a way out of this. But if he could just keep himself in control of the body he would surely find a way. With the strange man’s intelligence it was almost insured! But for now it was up to Barnabas to keep his wits about him, and to keep a look out for anything that might lead him out.
speech color code: 82271B

played by Hades

Bombur

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221B, Baker Street
« Reply #3 on: May 29, 2014, 12:51:00 PM »
The street was uncomfortable beneath his feet, even more so than the rocky mountains that he used to climb. It may have had something to do with the now, flimsy excuse of a shoe he was wearing on his feet. He didn't even know what they were and was half tempted to take them off; only if in the hope that it would make a difference to how it felt. Instead, he trotted on, quite quickly across the road and rapidly onto a pavement, which was a little more comfortable, but not all so much. All Bombur knew at present was that he was going to see Sherlock Holmes, that John Watson held in the highest regard. Whoever, John Watson was, Bombur felt that he was the sidekick in the duo. He tried to work out the inner workings of this mans mind, but realistically, he couldn't tell what was his own mind from that of John's anymore. It was as if Bombur was... well fading away and John was taking control. Bombur couldn't even remember how it was he'd gotten here, other than... well he'd hit his head. He could feel the deathly headache coming on and threatening to blind him.

Having entered the building, his hand rose to his head, gently massaging it as the headache threatened to pound against his head more. He removed his hat, and cloak, placing it on the stand in the hallway, taking a moment to steady himself as the headache brought on a bought of dizziness. Concussion... damn and be blast that fall! Being a doctor, one would assume he would carry something around with him that would cure an unwelcome headache, but one would be wrong. He was 'off duty' so to speak, and so all his tools and cures were locked tightly away at his office, and there it would stay until he began work the next day! His eyes scanned the hallways, hearing the hustle and bustle of Mrs. Hudson making tea, and lighting  the lamps so that she wasn't wandering around in the dark. Not that it should matter, for Mrs Hudson had a magical ability of keeping even the messiest of people tidy, and so, there was nothing for anyone to ever trip over, even in the dark; unless of course one was stupid enough to climb stairs in the pitch black! No, nobody in this household was that stupid.

Mr. Fuller.... Watson knew that name, Bombur, however did not. What kind of name was Fuller? He didn't even know, he was far too tired, and the headache was sending him to sleep. He didn't want to go to sleep! He needed to know more about this... bank robbery of sorts. He needed to know exactly what was going on. Right, Mr. Fuller... why did he. "Ah yes! Mr. Fuller." He muttered to himself, for Dr. Watson knew of Mr. Fuller, only from countless encounters with the bank in regards to his own savings and the likes. "Indeed, I rememeber that case well, Holmes. Though, if there is no sign of tunnelling, I dread to think how the culprits are stealing the money!" He also dreaded that they may even be stealing from his own savings account; though, they wouldn't get much, for Watson would just head down to the bank tomorrow and withdraw it all and place it in his safe at home. Very wise, Bombur thought, he knows the value of money! He listened on as Holmes talked about the fired bankers and how it was quite clearly someone in the bank that was making the robberies rather than those fired.

Watson wandered over to the window, looking out into the street as he thought about the information that had been presented to him by Holmes as he tried to piece things together and make an informed idea about what was going on. "Then surely, Mr. Fuller would be primary suspect number one would he not?" No. Mr. Fuller reported it, why would he report it if he was the one committing the crime? Bombur thought sleepily, but it wasn't long before Watson would present his reasoning. "What if he reported it to take the attentions from him, so that we would chase after others whilst he plans one last big heist? Though, I imagine it a very unlikely probability, you have always taught me never to rule the impossible out." Sometimes the impossible was a perfectly reasonable, and the likely probabilities seemed silly. Watson knew, however, if he was incorrect that Holmes would correct him. It was a wonderous thing that Holmes would keep the ideas to himself until the last possible second. It was like one giant chess game for him, in Watson's opinion, though, if he had to think about it, he wasn't sure what piece he was playing.

He brushed back the curtain as he heard a familiar voice down below, the one of Lestrade, who had clearly finished investigating the bankers that had been fired, and a small smile crept across his bushed lips. "And here is Lestrade to enlighten us more on the matter!" Turning on his heel, he headed to his usual seat and slinking down into the comfortableness beneath him. He desperately needed it since his dizziness was coming on worse and worse, yet, he managed to keep himself composed for most of the evening. He shuffled his hands into his pockets, searching for his pipe, and bringing it to his lips. He searched the small table before him for a match box, so that he could light his pipe in the hopes that smoking would help him calm his headache. He heard the front door open, and Mrs. Hudson shuffling about below once more, two sets of feet now heading up the stairs. To Watson's knowledge, it was Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, but only Mrs. Hudson came through the door. Perhaps Lestrade too had decided to relieve himself of his coat and hat quite like Watson had earlier.

The tray of three cups and a teapot clattered and jangled in Mrs. Hudson's less than steady hands, causing Watson to shoot up from the seat he had just begun to get comfortable in, grabbing the tray from her and placing it on the small table where he had grabbed the matches from. Watson was, as always, ever the gentleman, and thanked Mrs. Hudson for the tea and biscuits that had been placed on the tray also. He lifted the teapot, pouring some into the cup opposite him that he assumed was Holmes, before pouring some into his own. Until Watson was a hundred percent sure that Lestrade was ready to join him, he wouldn't pour a single drop of tea into his cup. "Milk and sugar, Holmes?" He offered as he made his own tea, with a splash of milk and one sugar just to sweeten the normal bland taste of tea. He heard the scuffle outside the door again as Mrs. Hudson made her way back downstairs to leave the two gentlemen alone again.
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