just-the-mortician-blog

[just-the-mortician-blog]

((ooc: Okay guys. I'm definitely quitting))

((I can't keep track of what's happening and I don't feel I belong anymore. I hope you have fun RPing and I'm really going to miss this group.

I'm so sorry.

Goodbye.))

[just-the-mortician-blog]

((ooc: Wow, lots of new people! Hello everybody!))

[just-the-mortician-blog]

((Because I'm never on and I can't guarantee how often I'll be able to post, I don't think I'll take part in this. Just so that I don't hold everyone else up))

OOC: Truth Or Dare

((So I am going back through things and I saw our little truth or dare Tuesday game. I’m not sure who still holds the ball, but I was wondering if anyone would be interested in started that up…

[just-the-mortician-blog]

The woman shook her head 'no', and Molly realized the problem.  "Okay," she said to herself, rubbing her forehead.  "Okay..."

She let out a huff of air and scrawled 'Lie down. Cover your head. Don't move until the mirror stops moving.'

Mirror Mirror on the wall...

    Sally held her stomach; it felt odd, of course it would feel like she was going to throw up because she’s stuck in a mirror. An old, dusty, and horrible mirror. Sally paced back and forth but once the woman first moved the mirror the inside where Sally was shook; it seemed like there was an earthquake inside the mirror.

     Sally screamed falling to her knees, not on purpose; it seemed when the woman moved the mirror the inside moved also. Once she stopped Sally jumped up and watched what she was writing. 

    Once the woman finished Sally shook her head in a way of saying no “It shakes in here!” she screamed then sighed knowing the lady outside the mirror can’t hear her with made Sally get aggravated wanting to get out as soon as she can. It seemed she was taking the very well, especially for her being stuck in a mirror. 

[just-the-mortician-blog]

Molly looked at him, really looked, and the fear and strangeness that had invaded her melted away.  She smiled, shaking her head slightly and squeezing his hand a little.

"No, of course not.  It's alright.  I was just a little unsettled."  She forced a giggle and toyed with her hair.  "I'm not used to people who take Milton so... seriously."  She searched his face, seeing the uncertainty there, and leaned up to kiss his cheek lightly.  "It's alright," she repeated in a whisper.  "I'm sorry."

Smiling brightly, she tugged him on.  "Fiction, you said?  I think you'll be impressed with the collection here.  It's magnificent, really."

Can Ne'er Come Down Again

Nick frowned deeply as she pulled him along in silence. It was strange to see the normally exuberant Molly so stoic, so worried—he wondered what he’d done to upset her. Milton, perhaps, hadn’t been the best choice. But he couldn’t resist; there were so few works of literature that caught some of the truth. Lucifer, glancing down below the surface of her skin, was amused to see the fear gripping her, the terror stilling her vocal cords, but more intriguing than that was the current of excitement lying beneath it. He could have laughed when he realized that she was actually sexually attracted to him. But he’d put too much effort into this to spoil it now, and besides, he wasn’t going to give up a new tool.

“Molly—” Nick insisted, gripping her hand more tightly and spinning her around to face him. “What’s the matter? Was it—was it something I said?” He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck nervously, words streaming out of his mouth with no real direction. “I mean, I get sort of weird when I quote things, sorry, it’s sort of a bad habit, my theatre teacher way back in the day said it was an ‘innate talent’ or something but I never really cared for the stage I get really weak in the knees—”

He stopped suddenly, blinking as he realized he was babbling. “Sorry. Do you want to leave?”

[just-the-mortician-blog]

Molly had already pulled a pile of clothing from her bag and placed it gently on the rolling table beside her.  She ran her hands calmly and clinically over Niamh's new body, gently massaging the tense, stiff muscles to help the blood begin circulating again.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly, not wanting to overwhelm the delicate bones and circuits of the newly-reborn body's ears and brain.  She slid her hands carefully beneath the Goddess and rolled her onto her side, digging her fingers into the solid muscles of her friend's pale back.

Dream a Little Dream

Molly didn’t know that Niamh was within her mind.  She just looked from one preserved corpse to another, mentally rejecting them one by one.  Too tall.  Too short.  Weak bones.  Wrong.  Wrong.  Wrong.

There were no blondes, which was disappointing, but eventually she paused over a young woman with a lithe figure, long brown hair, and delicate features.  Not perfect, but acceptable.  It was as though someone had pointed and announced ‘this one’.  Molly stopped her search, dragged her cart over to the shelf still sticking into the room, and began the ritual that would place her friend, the Goddess, in this empty vessel.

Her lips formed words she didn’t understand, her hands performed tasks they’d never done before, and when the lights started flickering and then shattered one by one, her mind cowered while her body continued its work.  Molly was on autopilot, and once darkness fell save for the candles she’d lit, she was able to examine the scene with an objective eye, even as her mouth chanted and her fingers drew archaic symbols on the body before her.

This would look really, really bad if someone were to walk in, she thought.  Then her voice rose to a crescendo and the candles blew out.

There was a long, tense moment of silence, broken only by the sound of four different lungs drawing breath.

[just-the-mortician-blog]

For the first time ever, Molly noticed how Sherlock's presence changed her.  The moment he came barging into her morgue she stood up a little straighter, her smile grew a little brighter, and she immediately stopped tapping her pen against her clipboard as she looked over her notes about Mrs. Tomlinson.

"Isabel Tomlinson," she said in answer to his question, gesturing at the body.  "27, died of cyanide poisoning.  It was inhaled."  Her hand went to her throat as she imagined the pain of it again, and then she froze when he asked his next question.

She didn't want to tell him.  She didn't want to say that she had nearly died at the hands of a dead body possessed by a demon -- the very same demon who was currently trapped in her flat.  She didn't want to explain where the bruising had originated.

Not because she thought he wouldn't believe her -- she knew he would, what with all the insanity of late -- but because she knew he wouldn't care.  He would look at her with cold detachment, tell her that she should work harder to cover up the evidence, and there wouldn't be an inkling of concern in his face.

So she settled on a story that he probably wouldn't question.

"I had rough sex," she told him, her tone neutral and flat.

Just Another Day

When Sherlock’s phone went off that morning, though he’d never have admitted it, he’d quite possibly have taken a case to find a missing cat he was that bored. He would have admitted, if pressed, that the experiment he was conducting was entirely to pass the time.

[just-the-mortician-blog]

((ooc: hey guys))

((I am finding it extremely hard to focus on this RP))

((I really, really want to, but I can never seem to build up the energy to reply to things))

((I'm going to give it a few more days, but I might need to bow out of this group))

((I don't want to, at all, but it's not fair to all of you to have someone who's slacking as much as I am))

[just-the-mortician-blog]

((ooc: guhhhh things have picked up and I can't keep track of everything blarrrrrrgh))

[just-the-mortician-blog]

Molly didn't bother answering Sherlock's text.  Nor did she bother feeling insulted over the fact that he'd felt it necessary to tell her not to let anyone near Mrs. Tomlinson's body.  As though she didn't know.  As though she hadn't been working with him for years.  As though she didn't fulfill his every whim and fancy when he was at Bart's for a case (which had, at one point early in their... well, 'friendship' wasn't the right term -- constituted an incredibly embarrassing hour dressed in a reproduction of a victim's clothes, lying motionless on the cold floor of the morgue in order to recreate a crime scene).

The idea that this woman might have died at Jim's hand, though intriguing, made her sick to her stomach.  She had let him make her breakfast, had slept in his arms, had -- she had to cover her mouth to keep the bile down -- had sex within the very morgue that Isabel Tomlinson's corpse now occupied.  Self-consciously, she checked the bruising on her neck from her run-in with the demon (and Jim), and, once satisfied that it was mostly (if not entirely) hidden, she returned to work.

If Jim was responsible for this murder -- he probably was.  It was too strange, too clever to be anything different -- she would deal with it accordingly.  He had never said he would stop, just as she had never said she would stop working with Sherlock.  If Jim had expected special treatment from her just because they were... whatever they were, he was dead wrong.

As dead as Isabel Tomlinson.

Just Another Day

When Sherlock's phone went off that morning, though he'd never have admitted it, he'd quite possibly have taken a case to find a missing cat he was that bored. He would have admitted, if pressed, that the experiment he was conducting was entirely to pass the time.

He picked up his phone and turned his eyes from the microscope he was peering into to see the text he had received.

Molly. Likely something dull. He opened the text anyway and his eyes widened.

Death under unusual circumstances involving CN.  Might be M.  Come take a look if you have a moment? ~Mollyx

For once on reading a text of Molly's, his thoughts couldn't have been further from Molly's irritating habit of signing her texts with a meaningless 'x' after her name.

'Could be M.' Three simple little words. So much possibility.

'John, I have a case!' shouted Sherlock to John, who was probably out. He fired off a reply.

Be there in fifteen minutes. Don't allow anyone else near the body - SH

He dashed out the door. A tiny part of him thought that boredom was probably preferable to the havoc Moriarty was likely to wreak... his curiousity and thirst for entertainment squashed that thought into oblivion.

He'd hailed a cab in seconds upon leaving 221B. This was going to be interesting.

[just-the-mortician-blog]

Molly's voice was gone.  Nick's voice echoed in her mind; rough, dark, intense, and Milton's words sounded not only natural but personal when he spoke them.  She shook herself, let out a huff of air, and managed a vacant smile and a distracted nod before pulling him gently towards the fiction section. 

She wanted to talking about his writing -- wanted to say that she was sure he was a brilliant author; someone with his appreciation for literature and history would have to be -- or subject him to her own test -- she liked to ask people about their opinions on Ayn Rand's Anthem; she personally loved it as a work of literature, but hearing how people coloured their view of the book with their views of Rand's politics was an excellent window into their personality -- but it was all she could do to keep walking in a straight line.  She was shaking a little, tiny shudders of uncertainty dancing up and down her spine.  She wanted to run from him, terrified by the glimpse of darkness he'd exposed -- but at the same time, she wondered what it would be like if he pinned her to a wall, a glimpse into her own darkness that terrified her even more.

She did nothing.  She just held his hand, avoided his eyes, and showed him to the fiction section in complete silence, even as her inner tour guide shrieked in agony inside her.

Can Ne'er Come Down Again

Nicholas studied her carefully as she spoke, like a serpent watches his prey, and her choice of quote made his eyes narrow, though he smiled. Her physical reactions were echoing in his own body, and his heart rate increased. Their proximity should have bothered him—it certainly did some of the other patrons, who were glancing over—but he remained where he was and even pressed closer to whisper again into her ear:

“do they only stand by ignorance, is that their happy state, the proof of their obedience and faith?”

When he pulled away again to smile brightly at her the dark edge was gone. “I know just what you’re saying,” he muttered back, minding those people who were reading. “He’s really quite impressive. I wish I could have even half of his talent, but Lord only knows that’ll never happen.” He rubbed a hand down his face, embarrassed. “Thank goodness not many people read my stuff, I might die of shame.

“You passed, by the way,” he informed her, punching her shoulder lightly. “Flying colors, congratulations.” The flicker of fear across her face brought him pause, however, and his tone changed to concern. “Are you alright?”

[just-the-mortician-blog]

Molly didn't know that Niamh was within her mind.  She just looked from one preserved corpse to another, mentally rejecting them one by one.  Too tall.  Too short.  Weak bones.  Wrong.  Wrong.  Wrong.

There were no blondes, which was disappointing, but eventually she paused over a young woman with a lithe figure, long brown hair, and delicate features.  Not perfect, but acceptable.  It was as though someone had pointed and announced 'this one'.  Molly stopped her search, dragged her cart over to the shelf still sticking into the room, and began the ritual that would place her friend, the Goddess, in this empty vessel.

Her lips formed words she didn't understand, her hands performed tasks they'd never done before, and when the lights started flickering and then shattered one by one, her mind cowered while her body continued its work.  Molly was on autopilot, and once darkness fell save for the candles she'd lit, she was able to examine the scene with an objective eye, even as her mouth chanted and her fingers drew archaic symbols on the body before her.

This would look really, really bad if someone were to walk in, she thought.  Then her voice rose to a crescendo and the candles blew out.

There was a long, tense moment of silence, broken only by the sound of four different lungs drawing breath.

Dream a Little Dream

Niamh waited patiently as Molly went through her morning routine, and it wasn’t until they were finally standing in the morgue that she started to feel anxious. She watched through Molly’s eyes as they looked at her options, and Niamh felt a sharp disappointment when she realized there were no blondes.

She looked over each body carefully, trying to find one similar in any way to her previous one, though she knew none of them would ever come close. She had crafted that body herself, every curve, every atom. It was perfection. And now she would have to make it again.

She forced her thoughts aside and finally came upon a body that would suit her needs.  She was slim, but Niamh could see the traces of her soul still clinging to her body. A quick glance told her she had been a dancer and had trained in martial arts. Her face was nice, she liked it well enough.

Though, she was a brunet. She would have to work around that.

“This one,” Niamh instructed, “This one will work.”

[just-the-mortician-blog]

((ooc: I suck, I'm sorry, I'm posting))

[just-the-mortician-blog]

face-of-boeshane replied to your post: ((ooc: so... I was going to reply tonight but I got distracted by America's Got Talent and signing up for a subscription to the Marvel website shut up I totally have money for that don't judge me okay it was 60$ for the year not even bad oh god somebody save me))

((am I going to have to call an intervention? note I only offer because I love you. lol))

[just-the-mortician-blog]

((ooc: so... I was going to reply tonight but I got distracted by America's Got Talent and signing up for a subscription to the Marvel website shut up I totally have money for that don't judge me okay it was 60$ for the year not even bad oh god somebody save me))

[just-the-mortician-blog]

((ooc: Sorry for not repling yesterday))

((I went for a walk and then watched Alphas with a friend. I'll get replies up tonight. I'm LOVING all the stuff y'all are doing :D))

[just-the-mortician-blog]

Molly moved as though in a trance.  She got dressed, ate breakfast, fed Toby, hopped on the Tube, and made it to work in a sort-of daze that kept her body moving while her brain worked on other things; how to perform the ritual Niamh needed, for example, and what she would need to make it happen.

She signed in at work, participated in the regular pre-shift idle chatter around the coffee machine for a fraction of the time she would have normally, and then went up to her office.  Once there, she gathered the items she would need with quick efficiency and wheeled them on a cart to the morgue.

She locked the door behind her.

"Aright then," she said to herself, her voice just as toneless and steady as it had been in her dream.  "Let's find you a body."

Dream a Little Dream

Niamh smiled. She knew Molly could pull through for her. The sensation of knowledge filling someones head was intense, and Niamh’s power was nearly depleted. Where she might have been able to soften the blow if she had her strength, poor Molly had to deal with the brunt of the invasion. And she pulled through.

“Thank you,” Niamh said seriously, “I know you can do this.”

And with a gentle nudge, Niamh pushed her into wakefulness. She did not leave her consciousness, though, lurking under the surface and remaining as quiet as possible. She had to conserve energy until the ritual and floating freely was taxing. Until it was time, she would wait here.