[He's breathing hard, his fur still raised, his tail twice its usual width in alarm.
He tries to think through the panic, through his racing heart, the way the world is narrowed into a few specific points. There is him; there is Otto; there is Rachel, with her hands on his wrists; there is the gun.
What does he want to do, to settle the matter?
That is the question.
His right hand twinges, where Ianthe drove her knife through it. It was only because he was a monster that the hand wasn't rendered useless for good, only until the end of December. The scar is still there beneath the glove, ugly and messy, a stab designed to crush delicate bone and tendon, to damage. That had been her price for peace after being chased and tormented in the street during the red fog -- that and an owing of a life, should she require it.
What does he want, then, from Otto Octavius?
A man who is obviously grieving?
Sherlock's hands shake on the pistol again, though it remains pointed at the ground. Killing him is out of the question. It gains Sherlock nothing. Asking for an owed favor feels like giving up too much power; he doesn't know Otto, doesn’t trust Otto, and he could be let down if the man doesn't care to keep his word.
Telling Otto to run, so that he can be chased, hunted, killed would be the most practically useful and the closest to an eye-for-an-eye equal punishment. But...
...as he looks at Otto and considers it, Sherlock realizes he cannot bear it. It would be too much, too cruel, to inflict on this man. He can't. He couldn't. Not willfully. Not while he is himself.
The whole journey Holmes goes on is clear on his face: anger, hatred, calculation, consideration, then disgust and frustration.]
I cannot -- possibly -- impress upon you the extent of what you did to me. I would visit it upon you in kind, if it were possible. Just killing you is -- it is not the same, it is not justice, m-merely -- waste.
[Breaths in, breaths out. He's trembling, angry and scared and frustrated, because none of this is right, and punishing Otto won't make it right. He wasn't in his right mind. It was the sort of monstrous attack where one's choice in the matter was taken away.
Finally making up his mind, Holmes moves the gun to his left hand and waves Rachel's slime away. He strides toward Otto, back straight, shoulders square. His claws are extended through the gloves, sharp little crescents of blue-white light.]
Miss Gardner, if this will upset you, you had best look away.
[And with that, Sherlock brings his hand around to strike. If he is not stopped, he'll leave three parallel scratches on Otto's left cheek -- deep enough to bleed, but not enough fot serious tissue damage.]
cw remembered hand gore, remembered murder
He tries to think through the panic, through his racing heart, the way the world is narrowed into a few specific points. There is him; there is Otto; there is Rachel, with her hands on his wrists; there is the gun.
What does he want to do, to settle the matter?
That is the question.
His right hand twinges, where Ianthe drove her knife through it. It was only because he was a monster that the hand wasn't rendered useless for good, only until the end of December. The scar is still there beneath the glove, ugly and messy, a stab designed to crush delicate bone and tendon, to damage. That had been her price for peace after being chased and tormented in the street during the red fog -- that and an owing of a life, should she require it.
What does he want, then, from Otto Octavius?
A man who is obviously grieving?
Sherlock's hands shake on the pistol again, though it remains pointed at the ground. Killing him is out of the question. It gains Sherlock nothing. Asking for an owed favor feels like giving up too much power; he doesn't know Otto, doesn’t trust Otto, and he could be let down if the man doesn't care to keep his word.
Telling Otto to run, so that he can be chased, hunted, killed would be the most practically useful and the closest to an eye-for-an-eye equal punishment. But...
...as he looks at Otto and considers it, Sherlock realizes he cannot bear it. It would be too much, too cruel, to inflict on this man. He can't. He couldn't. Not willfully. Not while he is himself.
The whole journey Holmes goes on is clear on his face: anger, hatred, calculation, consideration, then disgust and frustration.]
I cannot -- possibly -- impress upon you the extent of what you did to me. I would visit it upon you in kind, if it were possible. Just killing you is -- it is not the same, it is not justice, m-merely -- waste.
[Breaths in, breaths out. He's trembling, angry and scared and frustrated, because none of this is right, and punishing Otto won't make it right. He wasn't in his right mind. It was the sort of monstrous attack where one's choice in the matter was taken away.
Finally making up his mind, Holmes moves the gun to his left hand and waves Rachel's slime away. He strides toward Otto, back straight, shoulders square. His claws are extended through the gloves, sharp little crescents of blue-white light.]
Miss Gardner, if this will upset you, you had best look away.
[And with that, Sherlock brings his hand around to strike. If he is not stopped, he'll leave three parallel scratches on Otto's left cheek -- deep enough to bleed, but not enough fot serious tissue damage.]