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(( ooc: if relevant, please just run with whatever you like for any further case details - the details below are loosely based on the veiled lodger. ))

( He can hear the stranger small-talking with Mrs. Hudson all the way up the stairs - makes her day, doesn't it, that someone's taken an active interest in her, dear God. Face mostly impassive, he looks up. Takes in the other man's appearance (clothes; gray, relatively neutral, clever choice, be it conscious or not) and files it away, mentally, along with what he's gathered thus far.

So, he might kill people and boast flashy powers but you certainly wouldn't know by looking at him. He also isn't looking at the candle in question and that's wise, considering the many more important details he could be taking in as he stands there, newly arrived. Careful, he thinks and files this away too, though such new, un-tested data might very well soon be altered or replaced. )

You certainly don't much look like a serial killer but then again - who does? ( He balances the candle on the arm rest, narrowing his eyes a fraction. ) The old lady came to me for advice yesterday because her newest tenant baffles and worries her in equal measures. It's a woman in her late-thirties who takes to wearing Venetian masks indoors and out, collecting and creating hundreds of candles like this - (A nod. ) - only to store them in her room. Two nights ago, apparently, a threatening message appeared on the kitchen floor - burn, it said, and be burned.

( Sherlock looks up at the other man, then gives a light shrug. )

Hardly a murder inquiry but a little odd, perhaps, if we're honest.

((this reminds me I bought the whole collection via audible. Stephen Fry reads it <3 also it's been a good minute since I watched the show, so vague outlining is vague from google image searching.))

( What details there are to take in, too, once past the necessary 'always have an exit plan' strategizing. He steps further into the room, observing and examining the perimeter. A misguided message had led him here, as well as his own innate curiosity, but he was very aware they were on opposite sides of the law. Some distance should be maintained.

As he listens to the case notes, he wanders over to the fireplace, filled as it was with numerous items. For one so detail orientated, Sherlock certainly enjoyed surrounding himself with a lot of clutter. He could almost piece together the organization in place, follow each collection to its logical frame of mind, or fleeting interests.

It's the small decorative clock that has his attention, like something out of Beauty and the Beast. He hones in on that particular discordant harmony of ticks and tocks, could even almost visualize the gears within. He picks it up, turns it over to find its latch. )

Murder can wait. Do you have tools to fix this?

(( that sounds lovely! and perfect - so long as there's a lot of clutter and seemingly random oddities, i say it's an authentic description. ))

( Murder can wait? He pauses, staring at the other man with something almost like blank surprise - though honestly, he's mostly affronted. Look at this interesting case! Look at this person seemingly not caring! Much worse than his atrocious tea comment, much worse. Then again, some people (fine, most) just aren't that taken with case work - including serial killers, logically, as they tend to be mostly interested in their own deeds. He sits back in his chair a bit, crossing one leg over the other and following the stranger with his gaze. )

Do I need tools to fix it?

( He remembers their text exchange perfectly well, of course - the word, the skill, or one of several - clairsentience - and tilts his head slightly sideways, gaze gliding away as he speaks: )

More importantly, isn't it a bit rude for you to touch my things without asking? They might tell you some very personal stories.

( The withering stare he affixes to Sherlock is entirely at odds with the slight smirk quirking at the edge of his lips. Offending the man, getting under his skin, had been partially the goal; it seems it worked. But then, on the other hand, he was actively focused on the clock. Old workman's habit, those maddening sounds. It's why he normally carried with him a pocket-sized toolkit to fix these tiny problems. But, naturally, the one time he was without them, he needed them the most. )

Of course it's rude. That's half the fun.

( He moves from the fireplace to a nearby desk, setting the clock down upon it with great care, as if he were handling delicate glassware. Sylar removes his jacket and sets that on the back of a chair full of... old case files? Mixed in with books about tea leaves? He's sure there's a connection somewhere, but for now, those too get moved - neatly! - to a spot on the floor nearby. He's actually careful to keep the piles as he found them, talking as he works. )

The dead person's problems aren't getting any worse or better. Your clock is five minutes too fast, gaining a half second every hour. That's one ability I'm showing off. If you'd like another...

( Sylar steps closer to the desk, back to the clock, moving a finger along its outer edge. It's almost a lover's caress, and his eyes close. He reaches out with his mind, seeking memories, emotions, everything that might've been placed upon the item. )

This was in two homes before yours. Neglected in an attic, found by a relative, donated. Picked up by someone who thought they could sell it for profit. So they dusted it off, put it into their shop window and that...

( Sylar opens his eyes, and looks over at him. )

...is where John found it and bought it for you.

( Something in the room changes (nervous system responding to the slight shift in the man's attitude, his curiously careful movements and handling of items - a reaction rather than an actual shift). Sherlock stays as he is, stance mostly relaxed, listening while the man lets him know that his clock's too fast (analysing the clock speed through this sole moment of observation, not guessing, why would he, this is not ability pertaining to so-called clairsentience - this is something else) which would have been a show in itself, really.

But then, he proceeds to tell him...

Blinking, he sits up just a tad straighter, gaze running over John's empty chair automatically before he shakes off whatever hit the man just landed. The story's immediately verifiable which is clever, quite clever. But not, of course, the most obvious choice in the room in terms of personal stories. Relations. Events. Meaning, he could have been a lot ruder, his own words notwithstanding. )

A coherent picture, at least. You, not the clock.

( He glances over his shoulder at the other man, meeting his eyes. There's something building at the very back of his mind, the beginnings of an all-consuming curiosity, something that might very well nag him for a long time to come. )

You see, complex people are rarely as full of contradictions as they seem. That's not complexity, anyway, just confusion. I wonder why you chose the clock, of all things - it must have spoken to you, in particular.

( If he required verification of the certainty of his words, that telling gaze to an empty chair told him everything he needed. But, unlike Sherlock's reading of people, there was no guesswork involved here. He could've gone as far back as discovering who initially constructed the clock to begin with, if he'd wanted.

Sylar does not flinch away from Sherlock's gaze, as he has no fear of whatever this man might see. He's intrigued, even elated, when he has Sherlock's complete attention. Curiosity finds its match; a challenge posed, and accepted within the silence between them. Try to read me all you want, but know that I will do the same. )

I know how things work. How the pieces should all fit together to paint a perfect image. Plus, it was, a long time ago, my occupation. As you said: not everything is complicated.

( His fingertips glide over the clock's outer rim again; the mistreated piece has been neglected for quite a while. Barely touched by Sherlock, frustrations from John over the dust that accumulated upon it. Mrs. Hudson was the one to notice its timing was off, checking it opposite her own wristwatch, and it was she who purchased tools for it. Sylar smiles and his eyes follow the logical course to a desk nearby. He moves across the room in quick, purposeful strides, opens the drawer, and sighs contentedly. Of course they would still be there, along with the appropriate eyewear. He holds both up for Sherlock to see as he crosses back to the desk. )

Good old Mrs. Hudson. You really do not give her enough credit.

Edited 2021-01-05 21:37 (UTC)

( His guest glances from the clock to the desk - fast movements, going directly for the drawer and looking pleased to find what he'd been expecting. Sherlock follows that entire scene from beginning to end, realising quite belatedly that by letting this man into his flat, he's set loose some rather vast potential for destruction. Dangerous, surely, but interesting as quite obviously, all his items are loaded with history, years and years of hours, minutes, seconds. A key to un-locking time itself, too, going backwards.

How apropos for a man of his prior occupation. )

Possibly not.

( He doesn't deny it, of course. There's no need - it's not wrong but it's not exactly true, either, which suits the opaqueness of this whole situation neatly. Rather, he rises from the chair, takes the candle with him and crosses over to the desk, pausing next to the other and placing the candle on the surface next to the clock. Carefully, he pulls out a chair, pushes what's on it (old notes, a map of London from 1974, cigarette butts) to the floor in a heap and takes a seat. )

I'm sure we both understand how showing off can take precedence.

( By the desk, he remains standing, once he sees Sherlock headed towards him. It's both strangely courteous and serving his own needs: the consulting detective looked like a gazelle in a good suit. He moved as a man comfortable in his surroundings, with an edge of nervous energy. Gangly limbs and scraggly hair, yet those eyes of his, those were alluring all on their own. Multi-colored, reminding him of the Northern Lights above a frozen lake.

Sylar wonders how easily he bruised, how fragile his bones might be under that pale skin. The images of pinning him to a wall, physically and telekinetically, and finding out the answers to those questions danced his mind, here at the forefront and then away. Later, perhaps, much later.

He sits down while Sherlock clears away another chair, donning the magnified eyewear and carefully setting out the tools. Aligned, neat, precise; it was as routine as morning coffee. )

Maybe I just want to prolong my stay. It's not often the lamb invites the wolf into its den.

( He opens the clock and looks over its inner workings. It wouldn't take long to fix, but long enough, perhaps, to cause someone eager for answers to become more impatient. That was part of the fun. He finds the switch within, powering down the timepiece, and begins carefully removing gears one by one. )

You will get your answers soon enough. Is it the mystery that gnaws at the back of your mind? Or is this some overwhelmingly altruistic thing?

( He could guess which one; Sylar just wanted to hear him say it. )

( He sets to taking the clock apart and certainly, that'll prolong his stay unless he's planning on leaving it in pieces - an unlikely act of pettiness, when you consider the man's general demeanour right now. All the same, Sherlock watches him intently, noting the skilled, habitual approach to handling the gears, his focus. There's something very familiar about it - about reducing something down to its core elements, knowing exactly how to do so without causing any undue damage.

Something almost disturbingly familiar, yes. )

Please. Altruism is little but an academic concept.

( He tilts his head sideways a bit, intrigued despite himself. He's been the lamb before, in the eyes of criminals and psychopaths and he's not scared of the implications - after all, unless you're a common thug or properly insane (not this man, obviously), the chance to show your strengths, to be recognised and raised above the common sheep far surpasses the need to kill for sport.

He knows, of course, because he could have been a killer himself in a different life, as Sally Donovan so kindly reminds him at every possible (and seemingly impossible) moment. It's the shadow side of his profession and he won't pretend to be bothered by that, whatever it makes him in the eyes of others. In that respect, talking to this man is a lot easier for him than dealing with sanctimonious idiots who can't seem to understand that it isn't about morality, it isn't about boring concepts like right and wrong. )

I want to know the facts and the story pertaining to them. Nothing more and nothing less.

( The watchmaker laughs a little, half-smirking, over the initial reply towards altruism. He only wished other people could see that truth. It seemed all but indisputable to him. Halfway through now, with the gears removed arranged neatly, smallest to largest, beside the clock. Still within are the other machinations, what directs the order of time with the universe. Just a few more adjustments, movement of latches... )

You're like me. From one death to the next, it becomes an addiction, doesn't it? You indulge to cure the boredom, simply for something to do. The mystery for you--well, for both of us--is what drives us. We simply have different methods in our puzzle-solving.

( He could picture it now, this man as addicted to solving a found corpse's demise as the businessman buying another six pack of beer. In the latter's case, they used their habit to wind down the mind and mellow out. He was almost certain that wasn't Sherlock's reason at all.

There. The errant gear, the one he'd heard causing that terrible noise. He smiles triumphantly when he finds it, peering more closely. A very simple fix, as he'd suspected. Grasping hold of the tiny item with a different tool, very carefully, he readjusts the alignment. He glances up, removing the magnified glasses, watching him with that same predatory curiosity. )

How right am I, Sherlock?

( You're like me says the man who's admitted to killing others to harvest their powers (however that works - though Sherlock's got no doubts at this point that it does, this man is clearly not at all the type to believe in things that don't exist) and Sherlock would object if the truth of it - the similiarities - weren't so obvious. Though Sherlock knows nothing about watch-making or the intricate, inner work of timepieces, he knows the exact moment that the other man finds the flaw, the link, he's been searching for. His face lights up in a triumphant smile and for just a second, it's like looking into a mirror.

How right am I, he asks, looking up at Sherlock and the look in his eyes makes something inside him chime back in recognition. I know you, it says, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Well. )

I don't have to tell you.

( He looks at the watch, at the gears arranged neatly on the table, no need for undue damage, no need for disarray. Yes. That's how it is, despite what others might think - they perceive destruction when in reality, it's a game. A search for what's beyond basic notions like order, chaos, rules. Sherlock leans in closer, observing the shift in the alignment of the tiny, tiny gear, God, the subtlety of it. It's quite beautiful. His voice, when he continues, is full of air: )

Because you abhor what's normal and monotonous, too. That's why you understand.

( No, Sylar thinks as their eyes meet, you don't have to say a word. He could almost see past those irises of a raging sea into the mind beyond. The neurons and pulses firing on the same wavelength, and it was as if no one else existed in the world. Only they mattered, they above the ants that crawled beneath them, mindless in their routine, intellectually inferior.

Soon his reflection looked away and Sylar exhales slowly, unaware he had been holding his breath. Heartbeat loud in his ears, the nearness of the other man. If his hadn't been occupied with the gear, still held suspended in time, he might've...

Well. That was an excuse, wasn't it? It would take no thought at all to suspend the tool there with his mind, free his hands to pull Sherlock into his lap, or even better, lay him flat upon the desk and see how alike their tastes were.

But there was a broken thing still here, one nearly made whole again. He turns his attentions back to it now. Magnification was no longer required; he knew the gears' placement by simple rote memory. )

I don't normally perform this for a captive audience. Careful; I might become addicted to this, too.

( There's a beat, a hesitation within his hands before he places the next gear where it belonged. Addiction. What else did Sherlock use to satisfy that ache within him? There were not, he presumed, always a case to solve. Or, at least, a case suited to Sherlock's tastes. How did he fill the time?

Mm. Answers were everywhere around them, like dust in a sunbeam. He would find out soon enough. He sits back and places the tool within its toolbox once again. The puzzle was not complete. He moves his fingertips over the remaining pieces leisurely; he felt no need to hurry. )

I'm going to tell you the story of a man named Brian Davis. I hadn't known I had an ability, you see, until someone came into my life and told me I was special. What I can do isn't flashy, or obvious. It's all in the mind, what we do. Suresh ran his tests, took blood, hooked up the wires to my head. Those all said I was normal. He was ready to give up, abandon me, move on to someone else on his fucking list.

( No trace of anger anymore; he'd put those demons to rest a long time ago. His voice is velvet wrapped in steel wool. )

But. I knew the tests were wrong. I felt different. So I called one of Suresh's other names. Brian came into my shop, showed me his ability. And, would you believe it? He said he didn't want it. That he might... hurt someone. He was scared of the unknown, scared of stepping outside his programming.

I took what he unknowingly offered to me.

( His hand rises from the remaining pieces. As puppets on a string, the metal cogs rise as well. They hove between the desk and his hand, one piece to each finger. He waggles his fingers in a wave pattern, and the pieces follow in formation. He guides them to the clock, returning them to their rightful place. Similar gestures flick the switch on the mantlepiece clock, close up its back panel and set it upright again.

Tick. Tock. Perfect harmony. His mind felt at peace as he heard the mechanical clicks from outside his mind, instead of from within. He turns to watch him once more. )

Would you have done the same thing?

( Sherlock watches as the watch slowly comes together, piece by piece, the other man's personal image coming together in a parallel procession as well while he speaks. Tells him a story. But it's not just a story, obviously, it's a puzzle piece. Unwillingly (because certain compulsions are weaknesses, he knows it well enough), his mind jumps back to his own childhood. Being told time and again how stupid he was, how ordinarily blank, that he'd never measure up. Though Sherlock doesn't exactly relish the chance to see his own reflection in a man who takes what people unknowingly offers him - because naturally, that's what serial killers do - there's a part of him that nearly aches at the thought.

Imagine actually finding out that your initial hypothesis - your own ordinariness - is wrong. Faulty. Imagine rising above it, until for instance, you can make tiny pieces of glittering brass float in the air simply by willing them to do so.

Indeed, they've both been there, in their own, particular ways. )

Yes.

( His gaze slips away, the intensity of the situation (what are they both and how in the world do they correlate?) prompting a need for some sort of respite, if only just a mental one. He thinks about the watch on the table, whole again, about Sylar's hand rising, his fingers dancing in the air. Then, he takes a deep breath and re-establishes eye-contact again. )

Years ago, I would have.

( Then came crime. Addiction. And in between, long periods of soul-crumbling depression and boredom. He's resigned himself to those two existential extremes, to the point of not knowing whether any other reality might even exist for him. He adds, voice contemplative, rougher than Sylar's, speaking plainly of the smokes he no longer indulges in: )

Inevitably, boredom will find you. No matter what you do - ( Nodding at the candle, then at the watch. ) - it never really stops.

( Years ago, I would have... The tip of his tongue curls against the corner of his upper lip, very briefly. By the time it disappears back inside his mouth, he thinks: I want you by my side when I kill again. If they had the same ability, as he suspected, they worked exactly the same. Sherlock could absorb powers the same as Sylar.

Channel that hunger for knowledge in a new direction, channel that addictive personality. Could he convince him to go through it, Sylar wonders. After all, telekinesis would only force him to kneel, put his finger to the brain, but he could not make him rewrite his own DNA.

That was something Sherlock would have to do on his own.

Sylar leans back in his seat, lounging in a lackadaisical fashion. While never fully relaxed he could permit himself this tiny margin of respite. A flick of his wrist sends the clock sailing through the air at breakneck speed. At the last possible second, the timepiece floats down with delicate care to its rightful place on the mantle. )

I could make it stop for you, Sherlock. Maybe not now, or tomorrow, but someday... And you'll just have to trust me when it happens.

( Sylar doesn't look away from his kindred spirit as his hand rises, just a little, enough to bring that candle into his grasp. )

Imagine if you could do what I can do. No more guesswork. No more missing pieces. With just a simple flick of the fingers...

( His index and middle fingers barely rise from the candle and his eyes lower to Sherlock's shirtfront. The first two connected buttons there snap off, scattering to parts unknown within the apartment. Their eyes meet again, Sylar's sharp and watchful beneath the lazy veneer. )

...You could have anything your logical heart desires.

( Watching his reaction only a few seconds longer, drinking that in. Then, down to business, something he cannot put off any further. He closes his eyes, sets the candle down in the spot formerly occupied by the clock, and focuses deeply inward. )

( It's as if the very fabric of the room has shifted, as if, on a molecular level, reality's being altered right in front of his eyes. Sylar flicks his wrist and the watch flies back to its place on the mantle - you'd think it would crash at that speed, if you didn't know better. But while Sherlock can't pretend to understand Sylar's powers (the sheer extent of them), he understands quite intimately the power of the mind. How, if you understand every little detail, you can predict any outcome, in any context.

The trajectory of a watch, flying through the air, for instance, and every little inch of the space it traverses.

Imagine if you could do what I can do says the man who then proceeds to pop two buttons on his shirt, leaving his collarbones and chest just a little bit revealed, his skin prickling in response. Oh. If he'd been less entranced, he would have probably protested at Sylar's word choice - guesswork, really, like he'd ever guess - but then again, if he'd had the same powers, he might have thought inductive reasoning guesswork, too.

After all, compared to just knowing, pretty much everything is. )

You felt it, just now. The thrill of working through all the tiny links, one at a time.

( He doesn't bother fiddling with his shirt (it's ruined and also, ultimately unimportant) choosing instead to lean in a fraction as the other man closes his eyes, ready to work his magic - what an insipid metaphor, it's nothing like that, clearly, nothing so boring. )

Landing on the solution, finally, when all the pieces align and click - how do you get that, with your abilities? Frequently, the challenge lies in overcoming banality. In the process itself.

( He's honestly curious. In his own field of expertise, he considers himself the final authority, really, because everyone else simply can't be bothered learning enough, thinking enough, to challenge him. But this is clearly new ground, nothing he's ever seen before. Imagine if you could.

Indeed. )

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