My name's Richard Brook.
I'm an actor currently working in Cardiff.
Some of you may have seen me as 'The Storyteller' for the BBC.
Any questions, don't hesitate to ask!
I may even read you a story or two. :)
(Roleplay blog for The Tardis Irregulars.
Richard will answer all questions given to him, but for outside TTI roleplay please go to Jim Moriarty's blog.)
ooc: RP with this wonderful person!
Colonel Sebastian Moran had returned to London seven months ago. Former Colonel he reprimanded himself with a scowl. A note of distaste settled on his tongue, and he raised his eighth bottle of beer that morning to his lips to quell it, downing half the bottle in one gulp. “Dishonourable discharge”, they’d told him. What a load of bullocks that was—he was the best fucking sniper that army ever saw. So what if he got a little rowdy with the local women now and again? And if the problem had been Private Froam’s ‘untimely and mysterious shooting’, so what? Froam was a worthless little prick. And besides, one death of a fellow regiment member, in six years of service? In contrast to all the enemy combatants he’d shot down? They should’ve been fucking grateful Froam was the only one. They were probably regretting sending him home now.
In the time he’d been home, he had burned through the vast majority of his army pension. He squandered the money on booze, women, gambling, and occasionally drugs. He’d been evicted from his flat for ‘unruly conduct, destruction of property, and failure to pay rent’. He’d tried to get a job a few times, and even managed to land one, surprisingly enough. But that fell through when he brought a gun to work one day and threatened to shoot his boss.
He’d made no effort to contact his family and let them know he was back. That bridge had burned when he’d dropped out of University to join the army. As far as he was concerned, they never needed to know.
So now he was basically squatting, moving from park bench to park bench and empty house to empty house. He scavenged whatever cash he could, but most of it went to the purchase of alcohol. His beard was growing scraggly, his hair and his clothes were disheveled and greasy. He reeked of alcohol, cigarettes, and dirt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a shower or bath. Part of him didn’t care.
The house he was currently staying in was one of the nicest he’d found. Spacious and open design, with white paneled walls, plush tan carpet, and high ceilings. He leaned against a wall of the main floor bedroom, sitting up in his standard issue military sleeping bag. He’d probably go to the casino later, but for now he was content to sit in the empty house drinking.
God, he missed shooting. Gambling and alcohol were his only solace now, but they just weren’t the same. Bet they’re fucking missing me now, he comforted himself, not for the first time.
I have’t been on this blog in so long, which is really bad I know.
But now TTI is starting up again, I’ll be on reguarly!
Quick note: All post previous to this are null and void, with the exception of Jim and Seb’s first meeting which I shall (hopefully) be continuing.
So for now, Jim has only just wormed his way into the TV industry, and has yet to move to Cardiff.
Another note: TTI RP’ERS, I’VE MISSED YOU GUISE. Especially my ‘Bastian, because of reasonsssssssss.
I can’t wait to get things started again (and talk to you all on AIM because I miss our group chats!)
ooc: Every time I get on, no one else is on! :( *pouts*
ooc: SKYYYYY.
I’ve missed you!
Hopefully we’ll catch one another online soooon! <3
Footsteps echoed through the hallway from the front of the house. Sebastian folded the corner of the page in his book, marking his place, and hid it quickly under his pillow. His pistol, as always, was tucked into the back of his tattered jeans. As the man entered, Sebastian stood to face the doorway. He squared his shoulders, his head high, standing in attentive military stance, ready to meet the pit of the man’s black eyes with a hard, steady gaze of his own. He expected a fight, threats, screaming, violence; certainly, that had been the promise during his last encounter with the man. And he was ready. It didn’t matter what happened here today, so long as he went out with a bang.
But the flash of anger Sebastian expected (and hoped) to see cross the man’s face when he found Sebastian still infiltrating his premises, never came. No, instead, the man swaggered forth into the room, all smiles, spouting information about Sebastian that was not only classified, but private. Information which, quite frankly, stung. Sebastian didn’t regret what he had done, he felt no guilt. But damn it, look where the discharge had left him, with nothing. He’d been in the army too long to go back to the life of an ordinary civilian. He needed the adventure, the violence, the threats. Something. Anything—so long as it wasn’t the life he’d been leading the past few months since returning to London.
He removed his gun from the waistband of his jeans, and not for the first time (nor probably the last, albeit he didn’t know it at the time, having no inkling of the path down which he would soon walk with this man), pointed it at the well dressed man opposite him in the doorway. “Should’ve killed the Captain, too, but I don’t think that’s any of your business, ‘J.M.’”
“That’ll be a ‘no’ then,” Jim said, barely refraining from rolling his eyes as Moran resorted to aiming the very same gun that he had been threatened with the last time they met, in the criminal’s direction. A look of irritation still managed to cross his features as he took a few steps closer to the ex-soldier; giving the pistol in Moran’s hand a cursory glance before returning his gaze to the other man’s face. “Empty threats, and barely two minutes into the room. We both know you aren’t going to pull the trigger, Moran. That would defeat the purpose of your disobedience regarding my wishes that you vacate this property. But then, you were never one for following orders, were you?”
His lips twitched upwards in the corners; the amusement conveyed in the gesture never reaching the obsidian depths that bore into the brown ones opposite. Ignoring the gun, he slowly started circling the man; breaking the unwavering eye contact in favour of observing the ex-soldier more closely. “I see, however, that you’ve been rather busy since our last meeting. Cleaned up somewhat,” Jim’s lip curled in distaste as he noticed the tangled mess of hair that ended at Moran’s nape, “And I’ve been hearing about your valiant attempts at gaining information about myself. Well observed, by the way. Nice of me to leave a little calling card, wasn’t it? Just a pity my influence runs a lot deeper than yours.”
Returning to stand in front of the other man again, Jim idly adjusted the cuffs on his suit, and studied Moran’s face with narrowed eyes. “But what’s this all been for, hm?” he gestured in the ex-soldier’s direction, “The research, the attempt to make yourself presentable, the switching from alcohol to tobacco in an effort to be sober. I know the answer. And I think you do too.” A dangerous glint appeared in his eyes then, and he stepped even closer to the taller man.
He hadn’t missed the little signs as he walked into the room; the slight flash of disappointment at Jim’s reaction as if he expected more than talk, the way the gun was the first thing Moran had reached for as if to incite violence, or just the plain fact the man was still living in the house despite clearly being used to an itinerant lifestyle. A flash of teeth preceded his next words, the smile more feral than any he’d displayed before, “The adrenaline, the killing, being able to take someone’s life into your own hands. You miss it.”
ooc: This just made my night. :’)
And I’m just typing up the Squatter thread now; my internet decided to do a Carl Powers and be a royal pain in the posterior last night, so when I went to post it failed and deleted what I’d written.
Hence why I went to bed rather angry, and debated running a bath soley for the purpose of throwing the damn router into it. (Unfortunately I don’t have a pool nearby, so a bath would have had to suffice.)
Bear with me a bit while I try and remember what I wrote before; next time I’ll not be a doofus and type it up in Word instead of Tumblr.
(Why is it when something like this happens, your second attempt is never as good as the first?)
I would say that it’s ironic that Jim from IT was having technical problems, but I have an excuse. I’m Richard Brook now.
By nature, Sebastian was not a sedentary soul. He generally preferred a nomadic lifestyle, never staying in one location long. If he’d been left to his own devices, he probably would have moved on from the luxurious home of Mr. “J.M.” relatively quickly.
But he hadn’t been. No, instead there had been the alluring encounter with “J.M.”, and the lingering promise of a violent end if he did not vacate the premises. He remained, precisely because he had been told by a formidable foe to leave. He wanted another go with this man.
He had tried to gain some information about J.M., showing the handkerchief to a fellow bar patrons and card players, without any real success. Most of his London contacts weren’t pleased to see him, usually because he owed them money. But a few had looked at the innocent piece of cloth with its innocuous, delicately embroidered red letters, and terror fell across their faces. They baulked at the handkerchief, tight lipped and pale and shaking their heads furiously. Even threats and demonstrations of violence failed to illicit the answers he sought, as if nothing he could do to them could match the horror of the fate which would befall them if they dared say a word about the apparently diabolic J.M.
All the more reason to remain in the house. And remain he did.
The house was still in a significant state of disarray: the empty beer bottles from previous drunken nights shoved to one corner, piles of empty or half-eaten take-away boxes joining their midst. But Sebastian had cleaned himself up a bit, tried to curb the drinking as best he could. He increased his smoking to compensate for the alcohol withdrawal, and his fingers and teeth were quickly yellowing with tobacco stains. The scraggly beard had been trimmed away, but his chin remained rough with stubble. Dirty blond hair was still long and matted. He wore tattered jeans, and a plaid red shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a white undershirt.
Frankly, his appearance didn’t matter. The important thing was to wait, and hope, that J.M. would keep his word of returning, and to be properly in control of his senses when that moment came. He’d gladly die at this man’s hands (this man who seemed rich and spoiled and arrogant, just like the brats Sebastian had grown up with, yet was somehow so dangerous), so long as he was sober and went down fighting.
Every night, he sat against the wall in his sleeping bag, waiting. He dozed, read, or flipped idly through a deck of cards. This was his position currently, as he read a battered copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Master of Ballantrae that he’d sneaked out of a local used bookstore. He held a lit cigarette between his teeth, and there was a growing pile of ash and butts in the Styrofoam cup he was using as an ashtray.
The following week Jim did some research of his own, finding his results much easier to collate than the supposed sniper. It was a matter of following the right leads, enquiring with the right people as to what the history was behind the rebellious ex-soldier. The criminal didn’t have to push for answers, his reputation alone earning him quick access to the information he sought.
From his brief encounter with the squatter, Jim had come to the conclusion that he was from a military background; with his reliance on guns and attitude towards imminent danger. A sharpshooter seemed his most likely guess; despite the man’s intoxication, the conviction in which he had described himself as ‘the best fucking sniper this world ever saw’, meant there could be some truth behind those words. If only that the man was a decent shot. Then there was the circumstances of his dismissal. If it had been an honourable discharge, then it would seem very unlikely that the squatter would have taken refuge in his house, forced to live on the streets.
So he was looking for an ex-soldier, proficient at shooting from a distance, recently returned from military service with a less-than-desirable past.
Getting the answer was surprisingly easy. Despite attempts to cover up the nature of his dismissal, rumours had spread like wildfire about this particular soldier. All evidence pointed to one name.
Sebastian Moran.
So it was that exactly a week later, Jim found himself stepping through the door to the house, fully expecting the former sniper to still be in attendance. His suspicions were proved right, as as soon as he stepped through the threshold, an almost overpowering stench of cigarette smoke hit his nostrils. Smiling to himself, he leisurely strode down the hallway, letting his footsteps be heard clearly by the squatter who was still occupying the building.
Pushing open the same door he had vacated a week previous, he walked into the room, disregarding the surroundings for the man sitting in his sleeping bag. “From a nineteen year old soldier to a twenty-five year old nobody, passed through ranks like the ease in which your bullets tore through flesh. Only to return home in disgrace, your reputation in ruins. I don’t know what Second Lieutenant Mark Wood ever did to you, nor Captain John Watson, but was it worth the damage to your rank to see them suffer, Colonel Sebastian Moran?”
ooc: RP with this wonderful person!
Colonel Sebastian Moran had returned to London seven months ago. Former Colonel he reprimanded himself with a scowl. A note of distaste settled on his tongue, and he raised his eighth bottle of beer that morning to his lips to quell it, downing half the bottle in one gulp. “Dishonourable discharge”, they’d told him. What a load of bullocks that was—he was the best fucking sniper that army ever saw. So what if he got a little rowdy with the local women now and again? And if the problem had been Private Froam’s ‘untimely and mysterious shooting’, so what? Froam was a worthless little prick. And besides, one death of a fellow regiment member, in six years of service? In contrast to all the enemy combatants he’d shot down? They should’ve been fucking grateful Froam was the only one. They were probably regretting sending him home now.
In the time he’d been home, he had burned through the vast majority of his army pension. He squandered the money on booze, women, gambling, and occasionally drugs. He’d been evicted from his flat for ‘unruly conduct, destruction of property, and failure to pay rent’. He’d tried to get a job a few times, and even managed to land one, surprisingly enough. But that fell through when he brought a gun to work one day and threatened to shoot his boss.
He’d made no effort to contact his family and let them know he was back. That bridge had burned when he’d dropped out of University to join the army. As far as he was concerned, they never needed to know.
So now he was basically squatting, moving from park bench to park bench and empty house to empty house. He scavenged whatever cash he could, but most of it went to the purchase of alcohol. His beard was growing scraggly, his hair and his clothes were disheveled and greasy. He reeked of alcohol, cigarettes, and dirt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a shower or bath. Part of him didn’t care.
The house he was currently staying in was one of the nicest he’d found. Spacious and open design, with white paneled walls, plush tan carpet, and high ceilings. He leaned against a wall of the main floor bedroom, sitting up in his standard issue military sleeping bag. He’d probably go to the casino later, but for now he was content to sit in the empty house drinking.
God, he missed shooting. Gambling and alcohol were his only solace now, but they just weren’t the same. Bet they’re fucking missing me now, he comforted himself, not for the first time.
Deluded? Granted, in his current state he wasn’t at top form, but he had no delusions about his shooting abilities. He glared as the stranger swaggered forth, pressing his chest to the barrel of Sebastian’s gun, “What the fuck do you know, eh?”
Although the well-dressed stranger had managed to slip a knife out and bring it up to Sebastian’s neck without his notice… And that was something new, though whether talent on the man’s part, or further evidence of Seb’s currently addled brain, or both, Sebastian could not be sure. In any case, they seemed to have reached an impasse of sorts.
How much did he value his life?
Oh, that was the rub, wasn’t it?
An adrenaline junkie, robbed, through his discharge, of the war and the hunt that kept his blood pumping, withering away on the streets with vices insufficient to cover the loss of his army days. He was inebriated, and the excessive amount of alcohol in his system was like a poison mist that licked at the corners of his brain, muddling his thoughts. And in such a befuddled state, no, he didn’t much value his life.
It wasn’t that he had a death wish—he wasn’t some smarmy spoiled English brat. But there were things more valuable than life, like the sharp twist in his lungs and the current pounding of his heart, things he hadn’t felt once since his return to London. Until now. He didn’t actively seek death, but if Death found him, he wouldn’t back down. He’d stare him in the face, test the waters, poke him in the ribs, and maybe, just maybe, follow him into eternity.
And here was Death now, all self-assured, silky laughter, smooth talk and sharp dress, skeleton grin and snakelike obsidian eyes, and a switchblade knife pressed firm against Sebastian’s neck, drawing blood. Sebastian shivered, and pushed the barrel deeper into the stranger’s chest, but did not pull the trigger.
So, how much did he value his life?
The answer was simple, and better addressed with a gesture than slurred, drunken speech. Stone faced, staring straight into those dark, unnerving eyes, he spat, unceremoniously, in Death’s face.
Jim watched with a modicum of interest as the man actually seemed to ponder the question. As if the sharp edge of a knife wasn’t currently pressed against against the soft flesh of his neck, which would part all too easily should the blade be applied correctly; a threat which Jim had made clear in his previous sentence.
There were only two previous occasions that the criminal had had cause to threaten with a switchblade, his normal methods being the unwavering dots of red that allowed for a far more dramatic coercion. The first had grovelled immediately, much to Jim’s distate, begging for his life. The second, who up until that point had been boasting about how he had bested Jim, had tried to move quickly out of the way in his panic and had inadvertently caused the thing that he had been trying to avoid.
But the man in front of him seemed unlikely to do either. Jim had felt the faint tremor as he had drawn blood; noted the increase in pressure of the gun that was now pressing uncomfortably into his ribs, yet there was no move to pull the trigger. It was as if the ex-soldier was relishing the confrontation, rather than worrying about his own life.
And when the man had chosen his next move by spitting of all things, right into Jim’s face with a cold, unwavering look, he knew his assumption was correct. Of course, that didn’t mean that he was pleased about the situation - anyone who dared pull that move at any other time would be dead within seconds - but the flash of anger that passed over his face and the added pressure to the blade in his hands were only reflex actions. He was too busy connecting the dots, synapses firing at an impossible rate as he came to his conclusions.
And when he did, feeling the saliva trickling down his face, Jim smiled.
Removing the blade from the man’s neck with enough added force to send a warning, he used the other hand to pull out his pocket square and dabbed at his face, before deftly wiping the blade and collapsing the knife, returning it to his pocket. He dropped the soiled hankerchief onto the floor and pushed the barrel away from his chest with a finger, before turning on his heel and striding towards the door. Somehow he knew that a bullet would never make its way to his back.
“Do try and be gone by the time I return. I would hate to have a repeat performance of today.” He paused at the door, turning to meet the man’s gaze once more, “And refrain from spitting. It’s an unslightly habit.” With that, he exited the room, closing the door behind him.
In the crook of a doorway, beside the dilapidated ruins of the building Jim exploded earlier that day to capture Sherlock Holmes’ attention (blasted theatrics), Sebastian lurked. He leaned against the wall, casual but alert, keen sniper’s eyes trained on the door of 221B, waiting for Dr. John Watson to emerge.
His orders were simple: tail Watson, until the call came from on high to apprehend him.
Funny coincidence, where Captain Watson and Colonel Moran had ended up after all these years. Sebastian confessed he had been surprised to learn that Watson was companion to Holmes, the object of Jim’s obsession. What were the odds of the two former army men crossing paths again after all this time, on opposing sides of fealty to the world’s only consulting criminal and detective, respectively? Not that Sebastian had any qualms about kidnapping his former subordinate (the doctor was of no importance to him, and Moran was not exactly known for his sentiment and upstanding morals. On the contrary…).
The door of 221B opened, and Watson stepped into the chilly evening air. Sebastian waited, letting the doctor gather some distance so that he could follow behind, unnoticed.
As he slipped from his hiding place, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, skimming the text from Jim. For precautions sake (it wouldn’t due to be recognized, if Watson caught a gleam of his face), he slipped a ski mask over his face.
It was time.
Approaching Dr. Watson from behind, he shouldered the shorter man against the wall, dragging him into an alleyway at the corner of the street.
After an arduous day of remaining stationary with his rifle pointed at unsuspecting citizens (and the only kill shot allowed an old blind woman, where’s the sport in that?), or watching Baker Street as he had been the past few hours, the opportunity to stretch his legs and use his muscles was glorious. Much as he loved his rifles, he was grateful for the change of pace and the physical, close-up encounter, with none of those bloody theatrical spectacles Jim seemed so fond of employing.
Just hunter and prey, and a cold, hard pistol pressed to the back of Captain John Watson’s neck.
If Sebastian had his way, he’d bash the butt of the pistol against the other man’s head. But since the boss probably wouldn’t appreciate receiving an unconscious or dead John Watson, and since Sebastian had had a long fucking day, Jim could find his own way of “encouraging” Watson to come in a capacity that wouldn’t require ‘Bastian to throw a bloodied corpse into the boot of the car. It was his blasted game, anyway, let him deal with it if he wanted Watson conscious. Accordingly, Sebastian took a headpiece from his pocket and pushed the device inside the kidnap victim’s ear. It was connected wirelessly to his phone (but not his real phone, of course), and he pressed the button that would connect a call to one of Jim’s temporary mobiles.
A black Chevrolet Cruze waited for them at the end of the alley, where Sebastian had left it. He shoved Watson inside, and drove to the location Jim had texted him. A pool, as it turned out.
He strapped Watson in a heavy vest of semtex, wrapping the ensemble in a heavy green coat. The moment the doctor stepped into the pool room, no doubt under the instruction of Jim, Sebastian fled to rafters, and took his place amongst his fellow snipers.
As soon as Sherlock had posted the message on his website, all the little pieces of Jim’s game fell into place. Everything he had orchestrated over the past few days had been leading up to this moment; soon he would finally be coming face to face with the man who was, so far, living up to his expectations as a delightful distraction from the dull monotony of the clients he had to deal with on a daily basis.
Of course, he had come face to face with him before, but that was a meeting hidden beneath layers of deception and fake greetings intended to test the waters. It was oh so very easy to manipulate little mouse Molly Hooper; a woman so insecure that anyone showing her the slightest affection gained her trust in an instant. It was truly pitiful how the heart ruled the heads of the majority of the population – even Sherlock’s cold demeanour that he had admired from afar was starting to slowly melt, all thanks to the introduction of a certain Doctor John Watson.
Which was why this final part of the game had to involve the good Doctor in some way. It wasn’t hard to notice – however hard Sherlock might protest – their growing friendship. The words that filled John’s blog had started off as mere lines – ‘Nothing happens to me’ – and had progressed to endless paragraphs filled with subtle admiration for the great detective. Jim had witnessed this first hand in the lab at St. Barts; how John seemed to have become Sherlock’s voice of reason, saying the things that Sherlock believed to be meaningless. He didn’t miss how it was Doctor Watson who answered Jim’s compliment of ‘It was nice to meet you’ out of politeness once Sherlock had dismissed him so easily. And wasn’t that the icing on the cake? The great Sherlock Holmes fooled by some neon green underwear. Oh, how he was going to cherish the moment he revealed his true self.
Jim had texted Sebastian the location of the pool mere minutes before, and was now anticipating the start of the show. He waited for a few more minutes, idly adjusting his suit and pacing up and down in the shadows behind the pool changing rooms, when the call came through. John Watson was online. Pressing the phone to his ear, he spoke in mock-cheerfulness, greeting his latest pawn, “Johnny-boy! So glad you could make it. I’m a big fan. Now, listen very carefully. Follow my instructions to the letter, or your little detective friend gets a bullet in his skull for the trouble. And I’m not sure either of us wants that brilliant mind to go to waste just yet…”
From there, he’d slowly wound his web around the army doctor, making him dance like a puppet on a string. As he had planned, Sebastian had covered John in explosives, and they had waited for the arrival of the detective. When Sherlock had arrived – precisely on the stroke of midnight – Jim had watched from the sidelines as one thin arm waved the memory stick around like a trophy. He’d been disappointed to find that the man actually thought Jim was interested in the missile plans, but the next stage of his plan stopped him from dwelling on those thoughts for too long.
Watching the look of subdued horror cross Sherlock’s face at the sight of his precious army doctor was almost worth the wait. Jim couldn’t resist taunting the pair further by forcing John to play his little game of follow the leader, but soon stopped when the question he had been waiting for echoed around the near-empty swimming pool.
‘Who are you?’
Show time!
Having no more need of the earpiece he had been using to manipulate John, he hung up the phone and slid it back in his pocket. Placing one hand on the door separating him from the detective, Jim slowly opened it, whilst speaking in a petulant tone that was slightly altered from his real accent; “I gave you my number… Thought you might call.” Walking further into the pool complex with his hands in his pockets, he noticed the distinct shape of a gun outlined in the detective’s pocket and couldn’t hold back a comment; playing on his previous act of sexuality. “Is that a Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”
Coming to a stop at Sherlock’s response, he looked nonchalantly towards the gun pointed towards his person and simply uttered; “Jim Moriarty… hi.” There was no going back now. This was it. The game had well and truly begun.
ANDREW SCOTT JUST WON A BAFTA.
I’M SO HAPPY.
If Benedict wins my life will just be made.
Martin will have to resort to:
‘FUCK YOU I WON A BAFTA… BEFORE YOU.’
