ataraxion | [voice] dated to late wednesday "evening" - eridan's guide to finding dead bodies

[this is surprise.]
Oh.

[this is distress.]
I - I... uh - fuck -

[this is panic.]
I need - fuckin' son of a bitch I need, um, someone here, right noww, the pool - [there's a little gasping breath, followed by a more sincere attempt at deep breathing. eridan doesn't even try to sound Okay at all.] Someone's in...

[and finally, the verbal shoulder-slump of defeat.]
Someone's drowwned in the pool.

[this is not what he wants to be doing right now at all, in the slightest, he was just supposed to look around real fast, just a quick look before he kept wandering, there wasn't supposed to be anything wrong.] I need John Wwatson. 001, uh, just the 001. An', uh. Shit. [there's the sound of frustrated typing for a minute, then,] 002-215. That one. I need both'a you to... Talk to me.

Someone else come help me. He's definitely...

[there's a long pause here, almost a minute, and then:] He's been here for a wwhile. There's nothin' else to do.

[002-215, Neal Caffrey and 001-197, John Watson are getting a notification every minute for this post until they respond.]

((OOC: way to brutalize the /small tag, whoops. anyway all responses voice, it is completely likely that anyone who knew Sherlock will get a pretty clear idea of who Eridan's referring to with such a dramatic call-out to Neal and Watson. uuuhh other than that yep that's it Sherlock's dead guys.))

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Take them out. For fuck sakes, Eridan! You don't leave someone like that! You don't--

[ An intake of breath can be heard, and then the voice drops level again. ]

I'm on the lift now. Don't let anyone else touch them. No one, all right?

[ Eridan can't see, but he's stock still on the platform he's riding... and then sharply beginning to pace. He is a doctor. He knows that it takes only six minutes before the deprivation of oxygen begins to cook the brain. It's been about eight. Even if he could bring whoever it was back --even if Eridan tried now-- they would be practically vegetative. That was science, and John believed in science.

If it was implied to be anyone else, he wouldn't be doing this. He knows it's gone, he knows the chance of Eridan mistaking Sherlock, the man who sat on his back and hounded him with grammatical corrections and took the mick out of him at every turn, for anyone else is very slim.

He calls Sherlock's device. ]

[Eridan can't help it; when John yells at him, he growls, nothing more than a rumble in the back of his throat, and then snaps,] This fucker's dead, I knoww wwhat a drowwned person looks like, human or troll or otherwwise, an' fuckin' - god. Damn it.

[There's the sound of water sloshing.] Already been givven the go-ahead to pull him out opposite the side he fell in on. You - shouldn't be the one comin' up here. Let one'a the other medbay people handle this.

[ Surprisingly enough, the harsh snap is what really puts John back in control of himself. He stops on the platform, all muscles taut. There's a surge of anger, but it's nothing, absolutely against the constriction that's taking over his chest. ]

I'm the first to respond. It's my job.

[ That's all he'll be saying until he gets there. It's about a minute or so later that he does, and he whips into the pool room panting. He's clearly been running, but now he levels out to a rolling tread. There's something decidedly stalwart about the soldier's expression even as he strides quickly toward the scene. He can make out the length of a body from here, pale skin, dark hair...

But anyone could have dark hair. Sherlock didn't answer, but he never answers right off.

He knows, though. He knows as soon as he sees the shape of that body that it's Sherlock. He could pick him out of a crowd anywhere, whether the man had his collar up or a whole ninja ensemble. It's Sherlock.

Fuck. ]

[Eridan's not more than halfway into the pool, managing to keep his communicator from out of the water as he wades. He hears footsteps and sort of hopes that it's not John, but that's not his kind of luck, so he isn't remarkably surprised when he looks up and sees him standing there.

Fuck.]

I'm. [Nope, no, don't look at him, don't actually look at Sherlock either, just do what you're told. That new instinct has never been so reassuring.]

You can look him ovver once I get him up on the side.

[ John's jaw tightens. He wants to shout at the boy to hurry up, to toss his stupid communicator out of the pool for a fucking second to pull the body out of the water. He wants to jump in and do it himself. But Eridan is right, there's nothing they can do at this point. The body is nearly submerged, limbs sprawled by the ebb and flow of the pool filter. John's eyes focus on one pale hand, the long fingers which had once plucked and twiddled irritably at a violin string, but were now blue and beginning to bloat. He's been there for an hour at least.

John looks away.

He doesn't say anything. Eridan will see him moving slowly now, rounding the pool and not allowing himself to glance down into those waters, where the body of his best friend floats, spidery thin and pitiful. It's not Sherlock. Not anymore.

He's first on the scene, but there will be others very, very soon. Do-gooders, meddlers, armchair detectives, people who can't wait to have a look and jeer at the Great Sherlock Holmes, who was seemingly so stupid as to fall into a pool and drown. Oh yes, he's heard some of the other posts responding to this one on the way up. And if he has his way, the body won't be lingering for much longer. John Watson is an incredibly stubborn man, a man who often defers to the judgement of others, but not out of weakness. No one tells him what to do unless he lets them. No one's going to be able to stop him when he wants to go - that's already partially been proven by Eridan's failed attempt to keep him from coming.

People will be investigating the death. Not too hard, he suspects. The deaths of Hotspur and the painter still remain unsolved, and the former was more loved than the man floating in the pool now. That's alright, though, because John already knows who the culprit is.

God. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't supposed to be real. Sherlock wasn't supposed to lose.

Something catches his eye as he's scouring everything but the pool. His pace speeds up briefly as he walks over, leans down, and picks up... A gun. John recognizes it immediately. Of course he does. It's his. It's his service pistol, the one he usually kept in his nightstand in the shared flat. Sherlock liked to take it, used to like shooting their walls with it.

John chokes. His vision briefly fogs, but free hand comes up to fiercely clasp his mouth. He feels sick. John is a man who has seen the worst of what can happen to a human body, has been clung to by men who are spitting blood and shitting themselves and crying for their creators to spare them. This isn't nothing, but he should be better off than this. He should know better - he did know better. He was always aware that a man like Sherlock would never be the sort to be able to pass away peacefully, but this...

His back is mostly to Eridan when the sudden episode comes over him. A few seconds later and one can hear John breathing in, rapid and ragged. He straightens fully, shoulders rolling back to something that says he's more in control of his situation than he really is, and tucks the gun into the waistline of his trousers, which he then hides with his shirt. ]

[Dead bodies don't feel the same as the other dead things you find in the water.

Eridan knows that fact very well, having dealt with dead lusii and sometimes dead trolls, drowned for one reason or another or culled and tossed into the waves and set adrift. The sharks and fish that strangle on garbage from the land or get old or get killed by things worse than them, they all feel like they're meant to be there. Even if they're dead, their bodies are meant to be wet and a little slimy and cold.

He mostly only touches soggy clothing when he handles Sherlock's body, because part of him figures if he touches anything else, he'll disturb some kind of evidence or something. But when he gets close enough to the edge of the pool to put down his communicator, half-carrying, half-dragging Sherlock (the body) through the water, he has to grab hold of his arm, shoulder neck - pushing and rolling him out of the pool, not dragging him up. He touches bloating skin and it gives him the grossest sensation.

People who drown really piss him off, because they leave nasty touch sensations that he can't just wash off.]

There you go.

[For better or for worse, Eridan is distinctly trying not to focus on John's pacing, so he doesn't see the way his shoulders hunch or how he goes stiff. He hears the quick breathing, but he's not about to talk to him about it. His moirail's dead. The dumb fucker drowned. (Accidentally? Hell no, he thinks, but he doesn't say.)]

You should wwait for some help, probably. [He pulls at his jumpsuit where it sticks to his sides, then grabs his communicator and immediately backs towards the opposite corner of the pool.] If you think you need it, or anythin'.

[voice] dated to late wednesday "evening" - eridan's guide to finding dead bodies

[ Voice/ Private 30% ]

[ Voice/ Private 30% ]

[ Voice/ Private 30% -> Action ]

[there's some kind of (in)action going on here]

[gdi Eridan get a move on]

[look he's going as fast as he can you try wading in water in a jumpsuit sticking to your gills]