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[The fact that the manticore's hands are trembling probably doesn't make that gun any less scary. This isn't a man you want holding one, not right now.

Sherry cuts through the panic, too, echoing in his head. Sherry -- Sherry -- what is he doing? He's covering a dangerous man, he is protecting Rachel Gardner, he is...]

What are you doing he--

[Housemate. He has that answer.]

H-housemate. Right. [He shakes his head, trying to clear it.]

...you live with Rachel Gardner?

[And, though it's taken him an embarrassingly long time to put this together, everything moving both too slow and too fast at once, inside his mind and out of it, the information he's being given, both handed to him and the visual information going from his retinas to his cortex, too fast to consciously track, finally sinks in:]

Doctor -- Otto. You're Otto Octavius.

[He doesn't lower the gun, just -- widens his eyes and shakes his head.]

Oh, no. No, no no no --

[She lets him work through it, though in part that's to do with her own brain being back to its sluggish ways. By the time she'd open her mouth to answer, the manticore is answering himself, and all she has to do is nod. Less, probably -- it wasn't like Sherlock was looking at her. All he seems to be seeing is whoever Otto was to him before this moment. Rachel forms a second arm so that she can gently nudge his wrist is the suggestion to move his aim up and off Otto while still reminding him of her presence at his side.

Obviously there was some prior experience she doesn't know about, but it won't hurt to add,]

He isn't here about Dr. Norman. Mr. Holmes, don't let the fear decide for you. Give me the gun.

[The moment Holmes seems to make that connection to yesterday's network post, Otto feels whatever shred of courage he still had left sink into his shoes. He knows Ray is trying to avert disaster and he trusts her to try, but he's not sure he trusts her to succeed. That's why he braces himself, ready to raise that protective dome at a split second's notice. He doesn't know whether his reflexes will be fast enough, but he might find out.

He hopes he won't find out, though.

He just stays quiet and waits. Either Ray will be able to reason with this man, or she won't. If he ends up getting shot, he won't say it wasn't a fair move. He wasn't exactly in his own right mind when he killed Holmes either.]

I am not -- [he says, as his hands shake,] -- afraid -- [He is. The fear is gripping him, sinking claws cold enough to burn into his brain, into his heart. It is an echo, but it is still loud.] -- I am angry.

[She's asking for the gun, but no, no he won't do that -- Holmes isn't going to give the weapon over, especially not to a young girl with -- ??? firearms experience. Does she have firearms experience? She might, his mind tells him. But, still -- he doesn't want to be without it.]

This man -- pulled me into Lake Fors.

[He lowers the pistol, his heart still hammering, breath still short and shaky, at Ray's gentle push. He doesn't let go, both his hands are still on it, but at least the muzzle is aimed toward the ground, and not a person.]

Two months ago.

[Consciously, Sherlock knows that merpeople were susceptible to the mind control in a different way from other monster types. He saw the chatter on the network. He encountered Emporio. To that end, Octavius is a total unknown: he may be a habitual murderer, he may not. The behavior could be an outlier, or he could have served the Sjora's whims cheerfully. But the fear, the defensiveness, the survival instinct to kick and scream and do whatever it took to prevent what had happened from happening again...he doesn't want that man any closer to him than he is now. In fact, he'd like them to be on separate continents.]

[Progress is made, so she won't poke and prod about how he was lying to her at best and himself at worst, nor will she push him for the gun. If it's not an active threat -- or at least not as active a threat as it could be -- then he can keep it to feel more secure.]

Ah --

[Her rhinophores give a stressed flicker of light at the thought before returning to their steady glow. Water was -- bad. She'd nearly forgotten how bad, even with it causing her to lose Donatello. Now, though, as a slime, the thought terrifies her more than it reasonably should.

Steady. Steady, because it wasn't like that. It wasn't -- him. If it was then, then it wasn't him, just like it wasn't Donnie. Steady, because her irrational, transient fear couldn't matter when she was next to Sherlock who had been held down beneath the water by someone that was meant to love and protect him. Wordlessly -- Dr. Otto should be allowed to speak for himself now, she thinks -- Ray slithers her hand at his side up to his head to start stroking at his hair the way she had when meeting him in the pale fog, a pathetic man curled up tight and crying, needing someone that was really there to reassure him that it was over. Nothing more to be done. Nothing to forgive, because nobody would.]

[And there it is. The pistol's lowered, but Otto doesn't feel much safer. His eyes close for a few seconds as he draws in a deep breath, then open once again to face Holmes.]

... I did.

[There's no sense of victory there, no achievement or pride. If anything, he's defeated. Ashamed. And he's not going to make excuses for it. There's no "but" there. Whether the Sjörå got into his head or not doesn't change that this happened. It doesn't change that this man died at Otto's hands. He'll take the responsibility for it. He does have one other thing to add, though.]

And I'm sorry.

[Unfortunately, this cat is not in the mood to be pet. If the situation were less serious, the way he does the cat thing where they sort of squish themselves out of the way would be kind of goofy; as it is, it's a smooth dodge away. His fur is too raised, he's too focused on the person his neurons, shaken and twisted into new electrochemical pathways by stress and trauma, are telling him is an enemy.

He takes a deep breath, at the apology, then lets it out in what for a human would be a tch, but for him, it's a hiss.]

I know -- that you weren't yourself.

[It's a grudging admission. He kept Emporio locked in a room for a day and a half because of what the song did to the people who heard it.]

But was there no other way? You -- you did not even know me, I-I could barely pull myself together to go to work for weeks! I did not know if you were even truly real, much less where to find you, to settle the matter--!

[Oh, God. Was this what Ianthe had felt like? He had not known to look for Ianthe, but from her perspective, it was probably not so unlike this...this seething anger with nowhere to go, wanting to do something, anything to calm the furious and frightened animal in your chest, so that it doesn't stay the way it was when you were pulling yourself together, feeling out your wounds...

At least the gun stays low. But Sherlock really feels like he wants to punch this guy -- and, what's worse, also that punching this guy wouldn't be fair.]

[There's a spike of her own irritation as he dodges her, but luckily they're in a situation where she can't dwell too much on how he wasn't being a very nice kitty to her. It's more important, she must grudgingly admit, that he's not being a very nice kitty to the nice octopus man. Almost petulant, she instead dissolves the arm while moving her remaining one to rest across both of Sherlock's more fully, a gooey reminder to not raise the gun.

It's strange to know that she was now being confronted with the cause of her worst moods back then. Even knowing the difficulty, she'd been so spiteful of his reaction when he'd finally managed to bring himself to work. Eventually it was worked through -- at least, she thought. Here it was, getting right back in the way.]

Mr. Holmes...

[...it's not appropriate to say "this sounds like a You problem"... Okay, let her cook on this one a bit more, please continue.]

[The way Otto sees it, Holmes has a point. He could have tried to reach out over the network, the way that Marco did. Apologize without drawing attention to the possible identity of the person he drowned. He'd wonder why he didn't, but deep down, he knows why. He was afraid of the confrontation, and didn't have the energy for it. Especially after what went down with Peter all of last month. He doesn't like to acknowledge the monster this place turns him into on occasion.

But that's selfish, and unfair towards those affected by it.]

... I'm sorry. It was irresponsible of me not to try and find you. If there's something you'd want to do to settle the matter, I won't shy away from it.

[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.]

[Justice... The concept's too abstract for him. Unrealistic. He doesn't think there's any such thing- not in a way that's satisfying for the party who was wronged. No amount of 'eye for an eye' will take away the hurt, nor the memories. This proverbial eye cannot replace the one which was originally taken, so no matter how one approaches it in these matters, it's always a waste.

Just like Doctor Octopus, who's doomed to drown in the Hudson and take his precious reactor with him, both his life's work and his life eradicated at the same time, not to undo the damage already done but to prevent even more of it.

As promised, he doesn't shy away. When Sherlock approaches, he closes his eyes and braces himself for... something. Anything. He doesn't know what's coming. The answer hits him square across the face, and the following stings provide even more detail, along with the tickle of blood which flows from it. He barely flinched.]

[He sees the scratches start to bleed, sees Octavius take it without complaint...

...and, it is not so much that he is satisfied, but the knot in his chest and stomach starts to loosen.]

That will do.

[They're not even, not by far...but adding more to the scales does not feel right, either. This is fine. This is enough.]

You may escort Miss Gardner home, if she wishes it.

[A dismissal: they're done here. Rachel doesn't have to go with him, but she can if that's what she wants. He turns to walk back toward the morgue door, putting space between himself and the octopus.]

[If she weren't so focused on keeping track of Sherlock's movements and wondering if she'd even be able to stop him if he suddenly decided that murder was the justice he needed after all, then she'd judge him a lot more for the insinuation that she'd be upset over such a thing. Since he limits himself, though, she'll spare him the roll of her eyes and the sigh she wants to give, and instead give a nod.]

...In the future, I can arrange to be picked up somewhere nearby. If your offer still stands, of course, Dr. Otto.

[She wouldn't blame him if he no longer wanted to bother, and she doesn't really want either of them to go through more stress than, frankly, she was worth.]

Mr. Holmes, remind Jon to be nice, okay? [Not that he can't hear her, but...you know.] See you soon, Sir.

[It isn't until Holmes has turned and started to walk away that Otto opens his eyes again, raising a webbed hand to his bleeding cheek. Mmh, that'll heal just fine, he's sure. There's a few seconds of hesitation before his gaze swerves towards Ray. He doesn't mind that she knows about the lake incident, but he is embarrassed that she found out like this.]

The offer still stands, yes. I'll be here whenever you need it. [...] And I'm sorry you had to see this.

[It isn't that Sherlock doesn't trust Rachel's stomach. It's that she sometimes has difficulty, when behavior registers as similar to a misbehaving animal, and she had tried to pet him a moment ago.

But they move forward -- they will all move forward.

He holsters the gun.]

Until tomorrow, Miss Gardner.

[And he stalks off in the direction of the road to Djavulenstad, long black tail swishing behind him. He made his choice, and he will live with it.]

[He might be being a bad kitty, but he's not being her bad kitty or attacking her. Acting more behaved than what Ray frankly expects of people helps, too. She doesn't linger, sweeping some of her honey-textured hair back off her shoulder with her arm and oozing on over to Otto as if nothing worthy of upset had just happened. After all,]

I've seen a lot worse. [Just acting like he's asked about her day, no big deal.] It wasn't much of a surprise, but I guess it is good to know who made the reason I had to possess him to get him to work back then. I couldn't possess my brother after. That was sad.

[Otto's thankful, in an odd way, that Ray isn't fretting over him, or even acknowledging the repercussions of the confrontation too much. He does better when he isn't forced to confront these things. Besides, he deserved this.]

Oh... I'm sorry. I didn't mean- [He stops talking abruptly.] No, of course I didn't mean for these things to happen. But they did.

IC Inbox | Ryslig

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cw drowning

cw drowning

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cw remembered hand gore, remembered murder

CW: allusion to drowning

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WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, OCTAVIUS. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 015.03.020.15 * OCTAVIUS has joined 015.03.020.15 <OCTAVIUS>** You've reached Dr. Otto Octavius. Please leave a message.