Of Bridges And Lab Frogs (Sherlock & Jane)(Casual)

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Sticky.

A word that could be used figuratively, to describe the man’s current situation, or literally, to provide a rather accurate description of how he was clinging to a bridge one chilly morning.
The word currently meant both of the two things to Sherlock Holmes.

To begin with the more obvious, after flailing wildly for a short amount of time, Sherlock’s hand had gained hold of the cold metal of the bridge. Unfortunately he was still wearing gloves - and it seemed the surface was coated in a strange, sticky thing. Presumably paint. And as that was the only part of the detective still in contact with something sturdily solid, it would be extremely unwise for him to let go.
So the rather unfortunate coincidence of stickiness came into account, and the detective’s hand was stickily stuck to the bridge.

Very sticky indeed.

He was barely sure how he had ended up hanging from Brooklyn Bridge anyway. Sticky situation could confidently be an accurate term for the moment - but as to how it was caused, well, Sherlock was only certain of a part.
The size of that part was definitely unimportant, Sherlock concluded, shaking his head to rid a few strands of hair from his eyes.


If anybody was to see the ‘great detective’ then, they would be reminded of a laboratory frog - the way he kicked his long legs out as if in an attempt to gain some sort of foothold. The effort was more in hope than anything else, as it became apparent that Holmes’ situation was actually very sticky indeed.

Managing to draw himself up high enough to peek over the edge of the bridge, Sherlock looked around desperately for sign of… help. Though he would rarely ever even think to admit it, some things required the aid of others. And, adding to the list of unfortunate events, this was most definitely one of them.
It was a shame he had a tendency to not plan ahead.

[JANE EYRE]

There were few times in Jane's life that she's ran. Actually, there was only one instance that she could recall and it was the impulse that took her to New York. She was running now, away from everything it seemed. Away from Lady de Bourgh and her rules, away from Erik, away from her friends, away from the journal that she had used to dredge up the past in a masochistic cleansing ritual. Jane strapped herself into a pair of trainers, a pair of yoga pants (recently purchased, only ever used for painting or drawing), and an oversized t-shirt, knotted her hair behind her head, grabbed a water bottle, and started running.

It was a chilly summer morning for New York, but just as humid as ever. Sweating with her legs and lungs burning, Jane tried to outrun the demons that were reaching desperately to sink their talons in her back, taking ribbons of her along with it when it would finally depart. She was determined that everything that hung over her wouldn't collapse down on her head, taking her down with it. Jane was stronger than that, at least, now she was. A year ago, Jane would have been too helpless with everything going on. Edward was a singular being and a single cloud hanging over her head, that was easy to deal with then. At 18, life in New York would have been too difficult. At 19, after one long year of forging her own way, painfully alone at times, Jane felt a little better prepared to handle what was going on.

It wasn't easy though. Having been raised to hold everything inside, always told that women who were extroverted weren't accepted in society, Jane buried everything. The stress of Lady de Bourgh's lessons to be acceptable to her new class bore down on Jane, breaking down whatever confidence she had developed and replacing it with shame and nervousness. Every move Jane made felt incorrect; she wasn't sitting properly, standing properly, walking properly; her ankles buckled in heels and her toes turned in slightly; her mouth was a little too wide (unbecomming and hard to fix with makeup) and when she smiled, her small teeth seemed infantile and deformed; her eyes were just a hair too far apart and the color not quite pleasing enough to make up for it; her accent was common sounding and just foreign enough to be a source of ridicule and off-color remarks.

On top of that, Claudius confused her greatly and Erik brought up so many wonderful but horrible feelings. After running from Edward and finally settling into a life where she was happily alone, to have both gentlemen there...It was a little much. While Jane was almost positive that Claudius wasn't interested in her romantically, his attentions still made her blush. The kiss on the cheek, the arm around the shoulder, the opera tickets...All things that Jane would have expected from a suitor. Jane felt almost helpless around him, she didn't know him all that well and she didn't know how to react.

Erik on the other hand: Jane seemed to have no control over how she reacted to Erik. He was able to pry emotions out of Jane that even Edward couldn't. She had cried the first time she met him, cried and yelled, lost her temper and let him in on her life when she had never done that for anyone else. Speaking frankly, it terrified her. There were moments taht her feelings mirrored those she had felt for Edward, then there were moments where she wasn't sure what she was feeling and that was strange and unwanted. Jane's life had been filled with enough uncertainty, she didn't want more of it within herself.

Her journal, started with the idea that it would help everything, just made it all worse. Every little emotion was sharpened with its recollection. Jane didn't want to burn the journal though, she felt like she had to keep it now that she started it. Jane told herself that she was doing herself good by purging her mind of the thoughts that haunted it.

Now her pain was left on the pavement, pounded into the concrete with her trainers. Jane felt that with every step she took, she came that much closer to exorcising her demons. Her feet took her too the Brooklyn Bridge where the traffic and the water roared, drowning out that thudding of her heart in her ears. A ways into the bridge, she had to stop. Panting, she leaned over, resting her hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath. Jane straightened, swigging from her water bottle. Her eyes ran lazily over the scene, observing silently as she always did. She was prepared just to pick up and run again, but a strange sight caught her eye, earning a doubting, double take. A man was peering over the edge of the bridge, from the outside, his eyes searching desperately for something. Still panting, it took a moment for Jane to put the pieces together.

He needed help. Jogging over to him, Jane automatically started to reach for his hands. She paid no mind to the fact that he was a good deal larger than she, or the fact that her time in New York had done little to strengthen her thin arms. "Sir, grab my hand," Jane spoke clearly, albeit still out of breath a bit.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

He was usually a rational man.
Usually.

But deep water was a surprisingly common fear.
Sherlock’s (possibly only) phobia was by no means an uncommon one. Nor was it completely irrational (only very slightly, for obvious reasons, though slightly all the same), but it was rather irritating. And, when not hanging from a bridge over loudly roaring, rather threatening water, Sherlock failed to see why exactly he was scared.
Scared!

How preposterous.

But as it happened, the detective was not safely on solid ground. In fact, after a glimpse of what lay below the bridge, Holmes could swear that the bridge was starting to move…
No, of course not.
That was ridiculous.

It was just the water.
The damned bloody water, playing tricks - deceiving him.
How dare it.

Get a grip, Holmes.
It seemed his subconscious was becoming sentient.
Or rather, returning sentient… After all, Sherlock had managed to rid it of life such a long time ago. Though now, it turned out that it was only in slumber. Or perhaps a form of hibernation.

Mentally swearing an oath that (however much he hated it), should somebody come along and was able to help, Sherlock would take it gladly. And perhaps even thank whichever poor sod turned up.
No. Probably not the thanks.

Unfortunately, the next person to pass Brooklyn Bridge seemed hardly capable of such a task. First of all, she was rather small. And, supported by the fact that she was also very thin (perhaps the Sherlock-degree of thin), didn’t seem very strong.
But she soon spotted him, and made her way over to the edge of the bridge.
At least that was something.

But with a mental promise to fulfill, and encouraged by the water below, Sherlock reached out to the offered hand, resisting the urge to sigh or (and) roll his eyes.
He definitely hoped that skinniness paid off.

[JANE EYRE]

Often, Jane would rue her physical appearance. She was small and thin, weak and a little ill looking. This moment was no exception. Logically, Jane knew that there was no way that she could haul that man over the rail and back to safety. If anything, there was a good chance of him taking her over the rail with him if he did fall. The thought didn't deter her from trying to help: it was better to try and be hurt than to let the man just hang there.

Jane grasped the man's hand with both of hers, holding as tightly as she could. She wouldn't be able to stand it if he fell because she hadn't done a proper job of pulling him up. Bracing her feet against the bottom of the rail, Jane leaned back with all her weight. If she couldn't pull him up with her strength, surely she could drag him onto safe ground. Even though she was merely a wisp of a woman, underweight and a bag of bones, Jane still had enough weight to perhaps provide enough leverage for the man to get a foothold somewhere.

While straining to pull him up, Jane sent a quick prayer heavenward, asking to have help in keeping her feet on the ground. Literally. After grabbing the man's hand, the danger of falling in and dying was even more apparant but it didn't scare Jane so much. The letting the poor man down scared her far more than falling ever could. Death didn't scare her. Falling didn't scare her. Having this man's life in her hand scared her.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Still grasping hold of the bridge with one hand, Sherlock began to doubt whether they would be successful. It was truth, that she was stronger than her appearance allowed one to think, but still not enough to easily help the man to safety.
Then again, when was it expected to be easy?

It seemed that the rushing water below the bridge seemed to have an obvious affect of the speed of Holmes’ movements. Within seconds of kicking his long legs wildly (which obviously added to the lab frog-like appearance), he was able to find a foothold. Hopefully one sturdy enough to allow the detective to haul himself over the edge of the bridge. With help, of course.

He almost grumbled inwardly at that thought. Sherlock probably would have too, if his mind wasn’t currently occupied with other matters. He hated needing help; Help was a sign of weakness. If it was simple, solid concrete that lay below Brooklyn Bridge, then the man would probably have solved the situation easily. But, as it happened, far below his dangling feet lay a very large stretch of roaring water.
Water.

Finally managing to rise up to a point where he was able to roll onto the bridge, Sherlock held in a sigh of relief. He instead settled his mind on saying his thanks to the helper. But when he opened his mouth, his lips simply moved soundlessly.
Sherlock Holmes never said ‘thanks’.
So, cocking his head to the side slightly and scrambling to stand straight, Sherlock simply nodded toward the woman. Rolling his shoulders back, the detective seemed oddly pleased at the unspoken ‘thank you’ he had given.

[JANE EYRE]

Jane’s eyes were screwed shut in effort as she tried to pull the man back to safety. People walked by them without a glance and if she had been able to see them, Jane would have been dumbfounded and infuriated at the lack of caring. But, as it was, Jane couldn’t spare them a glance. She was determined that this man get his feet back on the bridge’s solid surface. Jane didn’t realize that she had been holding her breath until it left her in a whoosh once the man’s feet touched down.

Out of breath, Jane leaned against the rail, a hand pressed against her chest, right above her thundering. “Oh my goodness,” Jane mumbled between gasps as she tried to regain her breath. Jane leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees, now focusing on not falling to bits. After the moment, Jane found herself far more likely to panic than during the situation. It was oddly helpful but not fun to quell once she got agitated.
Jane looked at the man (tall and rather thin, much like herself) and saw the nod. She assumed that was his version of thank you. “You’re welcome,” Jane said with her own nod. Looking around, she saw that people were now passing without looking at them.

“Are you alright?” Jane asked after a pause. She straightened herself up and felt dwarfed next to the gangly man.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Though he probably shouldn’t, Sherlock felt a curious urge to lean over the railing.
How ridiculous.
That was how he had ended up dangling from the bridge anyway (he presumed, what he remembered of how he managed to land himself in the situation was still very limited). So it would be downright idiotic to do so again.
Hang on.
Was it an irrational thing? To want to peer over the edge of a bridge? An impulse not unlike the one many people acquired when standing in a high place - the urge to jump.
Yes. It was a completely non rational oddity.
Bugger.
Sherlock Holmes was never irrational.

Though it seemed not to be so anymore.

Nevertheless, in just one stride, he found himself leaning on the metal rail slightly (leaning very cautiously - though noticeably - outwards), gazing down into the water below.
Oh. That was why.
The two seemed to be locked in some form of odd, and rather amusing if one was to continuously observe, battle. On one hand the consulting detective, whose intellect could rival that of possibly any forensics team as one. On the other, the greedy waters of East River.

“Are you alright?”

Sharply straightening his back (which quickly brought him away from the direct edge of the bridge), Sherlock took a few steps back toward the centre of the bridge - and almost stumbled into a passer by in the process.

Why was he even on a bridge?

“Yes, yes. Fine.” Absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck, he turned to glance at the woman. “What about you?”

[JANE EYRE]

Jane continued to lean against the rail. Running a hand over her forehead, she grimaced. She was positively disgusting with how sweaty she was. Jane wasn’t used to such exertion, or the idea of saving another’s life like that. Certainly, when she had saved Edward’s life, it had been similar, but this had been different. This had been more…in her face, she supposed. There was a man who had needed help and Jane literally held his life in her hands for a split second.

Jane wasn’t a hero. She was just a teacher. The whole saving lives thing did not go over well with her.

At the man’s question, Jane nodded. “Yes, yes. I’m fine, thank you,” He seemed like an odd one. He looked over the rail at the water that had almost killed him. Why? Jane did not know. She already had the distinct impression that she would not be able to quite understand how that man’s mind worked. It was almost as if she could read it in his movements, so awkwardly put together yet graceful.

She was sure that his long limbs had something to do with that.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you end up there?”

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Holmes began to walk in somewhat of a small circle. Barely concentrating on any other pedestrians walking past (and almost through at some points) him, Sherlock paced on an oddly shaped, nonexistent path.

"...how did you end up there?"
That was quite a question.
How did he end up there?

Sherlock remembered walking on the bridge, like many other people did. As ordinary as anybody else. The purpose of his crossing, however, he had no idea of. And then... Then he stopped. Holmes recalled suddenly drawing to a halt somewhere near to the middle of Brooklynn Bridge (much to the surprise of a small group of tourists behind, who had to almost jump out of the way - though he didn't know that of course), and looking over the edge of the railing.
He also remembered realizing that he was on a bridge. For no apparent reason.
A bridge suspended over water.
Deep, open, hungry-looking water.

And then he found himself dangling from the edge, very close to falling until a helpful stranger had appeared. Luckily.

Pausing for only a second mid-step, Sherlock simply batted away the question with a gloved hand and a barely audible reply. He seemed to mumble something along the lines of: "Unimportant matters of consequence."
Or perhaps it was: "Doesn't matter."

He continued walking in the same circle (though pace now visibly slower), before drawing to a stop directly in front of the woman. He raised his left arm, eyes resting on a pale wrist and nonexistent watch.
He had forgotten. Again.

"What time is it?"

[JANE EYRE]

Jane followed e man’s movements with no small amount on incredulity. Watching him bustle about like that made Jane feel awkward just standing off to the side as she was. Jane played with her fingers and glanced about her again. People passed by as if nothing was happening, or had just happened, and Jane wondered if they didn’t have the right idea. Perhaps she should just walk away and leave the man to his…whatever it was he was doing.

At his response to her first question, Jane stared at him in confusion. How was it of no importance how he ended up dangling over the edge? Jane couldn’t understand how that was of no importance. Surely, since he almost died, he would care a little about that.

Apparently she was wrong.

"What time is it?"

Jane glanced down at her watch. “8:13,” She answered succinctly. Now would be a good time for her to leave. He seemed fine.

((ooc: random thought: I think it would be hilarious if Sherlock tries to drag Jane along with him to some crime scene))

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Casting his eyes downward as he walked, Sherlock only slightly noticed the look of confusion the woman gave him. It was an understandable one really, but he did not have time to ponder on the reasons she would be puzzled by his reply.

"8:13."
8:13

Certain influences had caused Sherlock to form almost alliances with a local police force. And, though he had only completed a few cases, Holmes had decided that the criminal classes of New York were much more intriguing than those of London. And after he had solved a recent murder mystery (which he had happened to accidentally stumble upon - completely unintentionally), the detective fell into a familiar rank not-entirely-in the force; He refused to be considered a part of the police.

Judging by the time, the weather and the fact that he expected the rest of that day to be at least a half-decent one, Holmes guessed that his mobile phone was about to recieve a text. He drew it from his pocket (glad to realize it hadn't plummeted into the water only minutes earlier) seconds before the screen flashed with a new message.
Predictable.

Reading through the important details (and remembering them) quickly, Sherlock breathed an audible sigh, his gaze transferring from the phone to the bridge railing.
"Bugger."

One thing he certainly didn't like about New York, was his current incapability to find his way around. London was brilliant. Sherlock Holmes had every street of London memorised and stored somewhere in his mind. But New York? He didn't even know which side of the bridge he had walked from.

"Do you, by any chance, know the way to 4399 South Hampton?"

[JANE EYRE]

This man was...odd. More than odd it seemed. It made Jane a little uneasy that he seemed so disjointed but at the same time like he was doing exactly what he wanted to do. He pulled out his phone moments before it signalled a text and wasn't pleased with what was on it. During the exchange with himself, Jane looked around for a way to leave. Thinking she had found a suitable escape route, Jane was dragged back to the situation by the man's question.

"Do you, by any chance, know the way to 4399 South Hampton?"

"Um...yes, yes I do," Jane lived about half a mile away from South Hampton. She went there quite often to buy groceries. "It's that way..." Jane pointed to her right, the way from which she came. She didn't offer up any specific directions because she couldn't think of any. She knew how to navigate the streets when walking but she couldn't write them down. Jane hoped that he wouldn't need her to lead him him there. Jane liked helping people but she was in the mood to be on her own.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Having stopped moving now altogether - he had even paused in the process of placing his phone in his pocket, causin his hand to simply seem to be suspended somewhat in mid air - Sherlock looked not unlike a statue. The detective hadn't paid attention to anything after asking for directions, and, for some reason, apparently become lost in thought. Whatever it was that occurred in his funny little brain seemed to be quite captivating however, for he stayed like this for an oddly extensive amount of time.

He almost missed what the woman began to say.

"... Yes I do."

That was a relief, oddly. Of course, if she hadn't known he would have most likely had to ask someone else. But he doubted New Yorkers were typically friendly or helpful. In fact, if he was to be opinionated on the subject, he thought they would most definitely be extremely not so.
And he had heard the most dreadful stories of the taxis in the city.
Not to mention he had forgotten to bring eligible currency. Nothing in american dollars, anyway.

But that was-

"It's that way."

Sherlock simply stared blankly at the woman. For somebody he deemed as helpful (she had just-about saved his life, after all), she had turned out to be rather the opposite.
At least in the time Holmes was conscious of what it was he needed. And that was directions.
Useful ones. Not just a general direction.

Quirking one eyebrow (though still managing to keep his face void of any emotion he may or may not currently be feeling), he replied in a monotone voice.
"It would help it you were more specific."

[JANE EYRE]

"Oh," Jane twisted her fingers and looked in the general direction of Hampton. "Um, well, you see...I'm rubbish at giving directions," Jane said quickly, sheepishly. Turning back to the man. "I suppose I could take you there myself. If I tried just to tell you I would get it all horribly wrong and you would end up lost," Jane couldn't help herself. Even though she didn't really want tot ake this man to Hamption, she knew that he needed to go there and that she could help. Jane realized then that she might be suffering from some bizarre addiction to helping others.

That was a funny thought.

Besides, she figured, it would be a waste of time to save the man's life and then ignore whatever else he may have needed.

It didn't matter why the man needed to get to Hampton, he just did. It was none of Jane's business to pry but it was her business to aid him in getting there.

"We could catch a cab but with the traffic as it is, it would be fastest to just walk. Or run if you are so inclined," Jane gave a small shrug.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

"... You see...I'm rubbish at giving directions."
Brilliant. Just -
"I suppose I could take you there myself."
Ah. Well, it was a suitable option.
Or, in actual fact, the only one he could find few enough reasons for it not to be.

For the rest of her speech he paid no attention, re-animating somewhat like a clockwork toy. He placed the phone in his pocket slowly, and spun to face the general direction of where they were heading. Holmes looked slightly pleased with himself, for currently unimportant reasons. Perhaps he was just glad to hear someone whose accent he could easily understand. Or at least listen to without tearing at his hair.
He certainly missed the voices of London.

But, pondering on the thought of the stranger (try as he might, he found no hint as to what her name was) accompanying him to the crime scene, Sherlock began to wonder what she would possibly think. He presumed that she would be opinionated on his profession, in some form, once she discovered what it was.
Not that he cared.
He was just intrigued to know in advance whether she was one to vomit.

Distracted, again, by fairly unhelpful statements of fact, Holmes rocked absentmindedly on the heels of his feet.

"We could catch a cab - "
Definitely not.
" - but with the traffic as it is, it would be fastest to just walk. Or run if you are so inclined,"
Walking had been his original intention, anyway. He was most definitely not going to hurry. Turning up at the scene with obvious signs of having run there was a positively mortifying idea.
Simply nodding his gratitude again, Sherlock took one step toward Hampton area, waiting for her to lead the way.

"Walking will be fine."