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WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, JOJO. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 336.66.256.63 *** JOJO has joined 336.66.256.63 <JOJO...?> Technically this message doesn't exist. Jonathan doesn't actually have a laptop. I just needed an Inbox. | ||||
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[He asks this curiosly, with more interest than judgment. Joestar didn't seem like the type! But, then again, neither does Sherlock. What's this posh lord gotten himself into?]
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[He has to pause a moment, as he breaks into a short laugh.] No- No not at all..!
Speedwagon is my greatest friend! While indeed he and his company attempted to mug me when I visited that alley on the hunt for the source of my father's illness, we quickly bonded after our fight, and until my very end he was the greatest companion a man could have!
[Speedwagon May Have Been Smitten.]
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Until your...end?
[Was this a meet-cute or a long con?]
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[Is. This. A. Mystery.]
I did not ask for them before, but...would it pain you too much to share the details surrounding your final days?
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As I said, at the time I was seeking the source of my father's illness- a poison truly- and had traced it to Ogre street. He is the one who helped me to locate the peddler who sold it, and from there, who purchased it...my step-brother. We cornered him at my estate, but my step-brother had in his possession a mask that I had been investigating. What I describe now occurred a few months before my end, but I assure you this is quite vital. For this was the night that he made use of this mask to become something inhuman- a vampire of my own world's making. The fight between us took the home down in flames- and a great deal of cleverness, to outwit his strength. T'was Speedwagon who pulled me safely out from the threshold of this building, and brought me to a hospital to recover, and despite his lack of skill in what would be needed to face him, he accompanied me the moment we realized he'd survived. In theory, I was then successful the second time...
[But Jonathan sighs.]
Sometime later, my wife and I set out for our honeymoon- but one of Dio's crafted ghouls, reanimated corpses, had survived to salvage what was left of him. His head. They caught me quite off guard- they turned much of the residents of the boat before I was aware of what was occurring, and so we were quite trapped. With all I could, down to my final breath, I was able to pin him in place that Erina could escape- with the infant of another passenger in hand, and unbeknownst to myself, our future child.
[As he explains that final end, he briefly runs a hand over his throat. But ah, he pushes it from mind.]
Speedwagon I'm told was quite distraught over this incident...he did what he could to clean his act in fact, though, when he arrived here I fear that being left without much in the way of resource tempted him to return to the life of a street thug, at least until it rather backfired upon him!
[The man sighs.] ...I do miss him...he was quite a wonderful friend, truly the first I'd had in fact. My step-brother did a rather good job of making sure I had none growing up after all.
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Holmes takes all this in -- a murderous step-patricide, a vampire-creating mask, multiple failed attempts at slaying this vampire, a mutually assured death on a boat, and through all of this -- Mr. Speedwagon, apparently underprepared for it all.
Also, a gentleman thwarted from friendship by a brother not by blood. Hm. An incomplete puzzle, to be sure. But Holmes thinks he sees the shape of the pieces, even if he isn't convinced Speedwagon went straight due to his benefiting from Jonathan Joestar's death.
He'll keep that to himself, though.]
Very well! I shall cease my recriminations. If indeed he left behind his former livelihood -- [of, you know, stealing from travelers looking for cures for their ill fathers] -- then it speaks well of him.
Did you say Ogre Street?
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[Jonathan does frown at that though.] ....Though it's quite horrid to hear that such a terrible war arose that it took my son so swiftly from life as well...at least I've had proof that Joseph lived a much older life, as strange as it was to have that news.
[Ahem.] Yes, Ogre Street- it was an area of London, though suffice to say it was quite a lot more than one single road. Suffice to say, it received the name through its ferocious reputation as a slum. I was quite aware of that much myself- those attacking me sought only to feed their person, their fellows, their families. They did not attack me out of malice, so I softened my blows, knowing that it would be no trouble for me to soon find my way home after.
It was this, which caused Speedwagon to cease fighting with me, I was told.
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[Not that he can relate. Fathering children? Absolutely not in the cards. Impossible to imagine. No, no, never.]
Ogre Street...I have familiarized myself with London's every neighborhood, but that is one I have not heard of. Pray tell, what year was it that you found yourself under attack there?
[Maybe it only came to be in Sherlock's future -- or perhaps it is a different London altogether.]
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[At any rate. Hmm.] T'was 1888- Jack the Ripper had not yet started his gruesome killings, if that name in itself rings any bells.
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That is still eight years in my future. That may be the explanation: that it simply does not yet exist. Perhaps I shall see the district emerge, in time. [He shrugs, spreading his hands!] It seems a bizarre place to have the sort of adventure that forges a life-long friendship, but it is not the strangest thing to have occurred in the back-alleys of London.
[Of course this guy pulled his punches because the people robbing him were needy. Ugh, that is unusually compassionate, and Holmes turns the subject from that to the interesting murder that's been alluded to.]
Jack the Ripper is also a future event, then? [He sounds interested.] Since there were multiple murders, I presume there was some delay in his capture.
[Please tell him about the gruesome killings.]
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Indeed he would be a 'future event' in your case- he started his bloody slaughter that very autumn, though...
[Jonathan gains a somewhat awkward expression, better suited to a young boy who was caught pilfering a snack without a handwashing more than the large fellow he is.] From what I hear of tales from after my time I believe I may have caused something of a 'mystery'.
You see, at some point before we were to pursue Dio to where we had finally located him, Jack the Ripper had been recruited by my stepbrother; he cornered us beneath a bridge, fighting us with the intent to kill. I unfortunately liquefied him with Hamon- Dio had empowered him as a ghoul, and thus, his undead flesh was entirely weak to such a blast of harnessed sunlight.
But naturally, that also meant there was no body, nor even a remaining suspect. It was simply a matter whereupon the murders abruptly...ceased.
[..........................................] I died only a matter of weeks later, so...the case to my understanding has been considered 'unsolved'...
[How can such a man manage to channel the appearance of a scolded puppy so well...]
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[Which part, Holmes?! The liquefication of undead flesh, or the fact that you've just been given the answer to the unsolved mystery??
He's pretty sure he could piece together what happened from the fight's location, though, if he had arrived before it all washed away. Actually...]
You mean to say that no one heard the commotion, nor examined the scene?
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Even so I'm quite relieved that there were no witnesses- while his human crimes were nothing to scoff at, he clearly took full advantage of being undead; he tore the very heads off both our horses and carriage driver. I shudder to think of what he'd have done if any witnesses happened upon the scene.
[Mmmm pondering the aftermath however...] ...Mmm...I suppose it likely that the scene could have been investigated after the fact however? Though I do wonder what conclusions would be drawn given the state of the body by that point...
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[All of this is hypothetical, but it's fun to idly imagine, to think about what he would have done, had he been around to investigate those traces.]
But, here we are.
[They are coming up on a low building with metal mesh over its windows and an unfriendly look. Sherlock cheerily raps on the door, then calls inside:]
Mr. Karlsson? It's Sherlock Holmes! I've come to use your facility! I've a fellow monster with me -- open up and let us in!
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[Incompetency, dear Jonathan!
.................anyway moving on-
Peering around his manticore friend, Jonathan beams in a way that one most certainly never sees in this place, and waves.] Hello!
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--but, here comes a human, opening the inner, solid door while leaving the metal-and-mesh outer one closed as he peers at the visitors. He's older, grizzled, and cauliflower-eared, and he looks from the manticore to the demon with deep-lined frowning suspicion.
He's quiet a moment, lip curling at Jonathan's bright smile.
Then, he reaches out and unbolts the metal screen-door.
"Always a pleasure, Mr. Holmes," he says, stepping aside. "Ring two's free till the afternoon." It's growled, but it seems sincere.]
Thank you.
[He steps inside and leads Jonathan down a grimy, ill-lit corridor.]
This way!
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[Spooky....ominous....he loves it.]
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Indeed?
[It's like looking at a puppy. This guy, honestly! Holmes looks wry, but his spirits seem a little lifted, despite the unshaven face and dark circles he's sporting.]
I'd have guessed it was a far cry from what you are accustomed to.
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This great lumbering fool, Holmes thinks, with a fond kind of stress. He is going to fly to space and get himself killed.]
Well...welcome to the other side.
[He pushes open a metal door, rusty and covered in the scribbles of years of patrons inclined to vandalism, and steps into a cavernous open practice room: industrial, graffiti'd, cleaned to minimum standards, smelling of bleach and sweat and athletic vinyl. The light that comes through the nearly opaque ceiling windows is gray and grimy, and the humans practicing in two of the four rings with their knuckles wrapped and brows streaming are hard-edged and grimy as well.
Holmes heads for the lockers closest to the only empty ring, peeling off his gloves as he goes.]
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Eyes trailing briefly over the practicing humans, he's quick to follow after Sherlock, pausing only when he realizes a somewhat important matter.] Oh-
Sherlock, is there going to be equipment I can actually wear though? I assume we're to use gloves of some sort after all.
[Or perhaps wrappings? Those count.]
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[After all, theft, legal. Sherlock inspects the lock for a moment, then spins it open -- and, lo and behold, a few things remain in the locker, including hand-wraps, bandages, and some ointment for bruises and plasters for cuts. He gives a pleased sort of hum.]
It seems most of it was left in place after all. Someone has helped themselves to some of the ointment, but I can hardly begrudge them for it. Now, for gloves...
[Here, Sherlock starts down the row of lockers, his fingers hovering an inch or so over the metal, reading traces left behind by their previous users. Finally, he stops in front of one, sniffs the air, and --
-- pulls out a set of lockpicks and gets to work?!]
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[He's about to ask what Sherlock means by someone helping themselves to his things- it was locked though??- when the manticore pulls out a lockpick of his own.
Ah. It.
Well he supposes it makes sense now.] ...I see. I take it there is a sort of....unspoken agreement in place then?
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[click! The lock pops open.]
There we go. As I thought.
[He reaches in and tosses a pair of boxing gloves to JoJo, taking a second one for himself.]
this is the part where i remember im pants at combat writing
THAT'S FINE WE'LL PAINT IT IN BROAD STROKES. ESTABLISH HOW IT BASICALLY WENT.
OKAY....I CAN DO THAT....
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