James Moriarty (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hatesdeerstalkers) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
daybreakacademy2019-12-14 09:39 pm
hatesdeerstalkers) wrote in daybreakacademy2019-12-14 09:39 pm
Entry tags:
And you were afraid you'd step on cracks and tarnish their revere
Who: Moriarty and You!!
What: Recovery from nearly dying for real w/ the Galra event -
When: December 10th onward
Where: Infirmary, mostly
Warnings: There will mentions of arm regrowth in this post, probably? Also potential mentions about what happened during the Galra plot, so be warned :V
December 10th, Infirmary
[When he woke up again, all the chaos that had surrounded him before was gone.
Instead of a hard, cold floor and wall - he was resting on something much softer. A bed, probably - And while he hadn't been in here like this before, he still recognized the Infirmary when he saw it.
There was a lack of a certain sound - not a loud one, but one that should be constant. One like...oh, right.
He wasn't breathing. And the attempts to kickstart it again failed - as, most likely, his body was conserving what energy it could to keep him alive, though he felt miles better than he had when he'd finally been rescued.
Miles better was still 'pretty fucking terrible', though.
From there, it was just a quick check on his extremities. Still deathly pale, and missing his left arm - and a quick, shaky feel of his face told him that his glamour still wasn't up yet, so he still looked like a gray haired and blue eyed version of Sherlock, apparently. Which, honestly, had him wondering if James had eyes, because he was quite certain he didn't look like his greatest rival.
Still, there were other things to think about. Like the thirst that was plaguing him at the moment - which made sense, considering. He'd most likely been catatonic for a few days...maybe a week?
He hoped it wasn't years again.
So - taking a breath just to be able to speak - he spoke out in a rusty voice that sounded all too much like the vampire he could be mistaken for.]
....Hello? If anyone is there...could I get some water?
December 15th
[Three days later, he was doing much, much better. The magical transfusions were settling well with his body, though his glamour had yet to return to him - or his butterflies, for that matter. His threads still functioned, at least - but he had to concentrate hard to hear or feel anything through them.
No matter. It would all return in time, after all - and time was something he had in spades.
Sitting upright in bed, a little color having returned - and breathing naturally now - he worked on what seemed like notes for what he'd have to go over when he was able to return to teaching. He'd been assured there were professors who would step in for him, but...honestly, he didn't trust they'd be able to get across what he wanted correctly.
On his left side, his arm....Well. It was regrowing, at a rate that made him feel almost constantly itchy - and if one decided to stare at it for a bit, they could probably see it visibly regenerating, flesh and bone stretching and swelling a little at a time.
If someone approaches him, he'll look up - or not, as he's pretty absorbed into that notebook of his. Still, at least he's a lot livelier than when he first woke up.]
December 20th
[...Going into the infirmary today would greet you with a sight that might be a little disturbing - that being Moriarty with both hands....but his left is distinctly small and childlike while the other is a grown man's hand.
In the baby hand is a bunch of fabric, while he works with needle and thread in the other - making something that's....very small? It looks like it'll be well made whenever he's done with it, at least.
His glamor has finally returned, the much more familiar old, mustachioed man sliding back into place - with a brightness and warmth to him that he hasn't had in a while. His Butterflies still weren't back, but...
Every now and then, he stops - and holds up the item, muttering to himself about his handiwork before going back to it.]
Hopefully, I'll be able to finish this by christmas...though I suppose he wouldn't mind it being a bit after...? I should be released soon, so I'll also have to start on a few other things...
[Want to bother him? Go right ahead.]
What: Recovery from nearly dying for real w/ the Galra event -
When: December 10th onward
Where: Infirmary, mostly
Warnings: There will mentions of arm regrowth in this post, probably? Also potential mentions about what happened during the Galra plot, so be warned :V
December 10th, Infirmary
[When he woke up again, all the chaos that had surrounded him before was gone.
Instead of a hard, cold floor and wall - he was resting on something much softer. A bed, probably - And while he hadn't been in here like this before, he still recognized the Infirmary when he saw it.
There was a lack of a certain sound - not a loud one, but one that should be constant. One like...oh, right.
He wasn't breathing. And the attempts to kickstart it again failed - as, most likely, his body was conserving what energy it could to keep him alive, though he felt miles better than he had when he'd finally been rescued.
Miles better was still 'pretty fucking terrible', though.
From there, it was just a quick check on his extremities. Still deathly pale, and missing his left arm - and a quick, shaky feel of his face told him that his glamour still wasn't up yet, so he still looked like a gray haired and blue eyed version of Sherlock, apparently. Which, honestly, had him wondering if James had eyes, because he was quite certain he didn't look like his greatest rival.
Still, there were other things to think about. Like the thirst that was plaguing him at the moment - which made sense, considering. He'd most likely been catatonic for a few days...maybe a week?
He hoped it wasn't years again.
So - taking a breath just to be able to speak - he spoke out in a rusty voice that sounded all too much like the vampire he could be mistaken for.]
....Hello? If anyone is there...could I get some water?
December 15th
[Three days later, he was doing much, much better. The magical transfusions were settling well with his body, though his glamour had yet to return to him - or his butterflies, for that matter. His threads still functioned, at least - but he had to concentrate hard to hear or feel anything through them.
No matter. It would all return in time, after all - and time was something he had in spades.
Sitting upright in bed, a little color having returned - and breathing naturally now - he worked on what seemed like notes for what he'd have to go over when he was able to return to teaching. He'd been assured there were professors who would step in for him, but...honestly, he didn't trust they'd be able to get across what he wanted correctly.
On his left side, his arm....Well. It was regrowing, at a rate that made him feel almost constantly itchy - and if one decided to stare at it for a bit, they could probably see it visibly regenerating, flesh and bone stretching and swelling a little at a time.
If someone approaches him, he'll look up - or not, as he's pretty absorbed into that notebook of his. Still, at least he's a lot livelier than when he first woke up.]
December 20th
[...Going into the infirmary today would greet you with a sight that might be a little disturbing - that being Moriarty with both hands....but his left is distinctly small and childlike while the other is a grown man's hand.
In the baby hand is a bunch of fabric, while he works with needle and thread in the other - making something that's....very small? It looks like it'll be well made whenever he's done with it, at least.
His glamor has finally returned, the much more familiar old, mustachioed man sliding back into place - with a brightness and warmth to him that he hasn't had in a while. His Butterflies still weren't back, but...
Every now and then, he stops - and holds up the item, muttering to himself about his handiwork before going back to it.]
Hopefully, I'll be able to finish this by christmas...though I suppose he wouldn't mind it being a bit after...? I should be released soon, so I'll also have to start on a few other things...
[Want to bother him? Go right ahead.]
dec. 15
—slam! ]
Professor!!!!
[ guess who has finally been allowed into moriarty’s room and is bursting there like an avalanche. ]
You’re alive!
no subject
How could he forget Flat was a person who existed, though he's a little surprised the boy's so...eager to see him. Still, he gives a tired smile in response.]
Despite all odds, yes! Though - should you really be using alive when talking about my condition?
no subject
[ flat laughs, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. he’s still having a hard time processing his own emotions about the situation, so he prefers not to deal with them right now. ]
But you almost died for good, you know? So this is definitely more alive than how you were when we found you.
no subject
Hm...yes, I believe I was incredibly close to actually dying. They were taking large amounts of magic out of me...It'd be akin to repeatedly having your blood drawn for someone like you, I suppose.
no subject
anger and fear, respectively. ]
Yeah, that’s what I thought! I feel it was a bit inefficient, how they did it, but I guess they’re not taking constructive criticism anymore. [ he chuckles, before returning to one of the most pressing questions in his mind. ] But what was the reason they cut your arm off? It couldn’t be to prevent you from escaping—if that was the case I’d have cut your legs off instead!
no subject
[He gives a long-standing, tired sigh.]
They had me strapped down anyway, so it wasn't as if I could run. There were also a few deaths, before they thought to have someone check my magic levels and learn that I had an excess of it.
no subject
[ flat’s smile fades as he realizes this, his expression turning blank. he doesn’t wish to use magic to keep it up, out of respect towards his professor. he has never really felt anger before these past few days, so he doesn’t know how to express it yet. he doesn’t even notice the fact that his knuckles are white from gripping the bed sheets so hard.
there’s a long pause, and flat continues talking in a casual tone. ]
And here Mr. Ekkehardt didn’t let me speak with one of those Galra people. He killed them so quickly, that they definitely didn’t have a chance to think of what they did wrong! What kind of punishment is that?
no subject
[Just matter of factly, honestly. He sees the smile fade, but it's clear that flat is...angry.
In one sense, that was good - but considering flat's...everything, he's probably overwhelmed at the moment with it all.
So he reaches out with his good arm, putting a hand on the teen's shoulder.]
I assume it was due to everyone there being in danger - sometimes, you must take care of a threat before you ever get the chance to show them the error of their ways, Flat.
no subject
hm. ]
If you say so. [ although he doesn't completely agree with it himself, flat finds himself nodding to moriarty's reasoning. perhaps that was easier than continuing to stress about it on his own. ]
However, you can't let yourself get caught like that again, Professor! What if you die for real the next time!?
no subject
[He keep his tone light and conversational - though he laughs when he hears the question.]
My boy, I didn't plan on getting caught! And honestly, I've been alive for almost 200 years - if it didn't mean I would be dragging Holmes into it, I'd honestly just consider it that I had a good enough run.
[He's....completely serious, as well. Death would be fine for him - true death - if it hadn't also involved Sherlock. In his mind, the fact that they seemed to do the worst to him helped with the other captives at the base, though they were also tortured.
But he can't find it in himself to be worried about his own wellbeing - after all, there is still that ever present apathy in him, suffused in everything he says and does.]