no subject

[miss_vas_normandy]

In hindsight it had probably been just a matter of time before Tali's shiny new immune system found something it couldn't combat. She'd spent a week hiding in her room, scarcely getting out of bed unless it was to shuffle to the bathroom. Her research lead her to believe that it was most likely a virus, and the only real solution was to wait it out and treat the symptoms.

Tali would have been able to do that if a) she were still in a quarian body and b) had access to the fleet's medical supplies, but alas, she didn't have a clue how to treat human ailments and annoyances like queasy stomachs and fever chills and aching limbs and stuffy noses. Her only experience with sickness was as a quarian, and quarian anatomy was quite different.

So she researched more, and when her fever broke and she felt well enough to drag herself downstairs, she acquired a bowl of chicken soup, a glass of ginger ale, and a sleeve of saltine crackers. With her nose so stuffy, she could barely taste anything but a vague saltiness, though the warmth of the soup did seem to soothe the rawness in her throat, and the ginger ale calmed her stomach. Now if there was only something she could about the irritated glances she kept getting everything she had to cough into a napkin or blow her nose, other than try to look apologetic and pitiable.

"Maybe I should have tried the hot toddy instead," she murmured thoughtfully, using her spoon to poke at a chunk of carrot floating in her soup. "At least then I'd be a little drunk."

[[poor alien girl is sick, feel free to give her advice, pity, or treat her like she's plague-ridden]]

I. Owe. You.

[thefinalsolution]

What is it that you break even when you name it?

Riddles, this place is full of riddles as far as the eye can see and Moriarty's eye stretches far, as far as the interminable and never-ending stream of thoughts in his mind is permitted to roam. This place is full of riddles and mazes and doors and death and oh, if that isn't a welcome home gift, then he doesn't know what is. How he came to be here, he doesn't know, but it's enough of a distraction that he finds himself staying longer than planned.

Besides, Irene will keep Sherlock occupied. It's her turn for a playdate and Moriarty will get his chance, but a consulting criminal with a thorough web need not be on demand. The more you take, the more you leave behind. Riddles! So many riddles! Why does one door lead back to London when another takes him to the chilly Arctic? Why does one door open to a world of misfit murderers (many of whom Moriarty would have liked to associate with, if not for the unfortunate need for them to play their part) and others bring him back to the hotel?

His laugh is childish and innocent, such a thrill for such an advanced mind! Riddles! It's full of riddles, he thinks, and vows to become one while he's here. No cause to spoil all his fun so soon. John Holmes, now there's a name and a clever little joke in one. Perhaps a bit too obvious, but when have ordinary people ever looked the obvious in the eye, stabbed it in its heart and said 'I know you'?

"Silence," he answers, scanning the area around him as he stands upon the precipice of a great hall, strewn with the remnants of an old party. Moriarty stands in the doorway and wonders what great festival he's missed. No time like the present to find out.

Absently, with a mind to relax his posture and his shoulders, he steps into the room and into character and sets about making himself a mark in this new world of riddles and puzzles.

Soon, he'll extend his web, but webbing will wait.