Glyphs and Grammars (Sherlock, Lestrade/Casual)

[JIAO "JO" MAHR]

Jiao stepped out onto the 81st Street subway station and walked with the relatively small crowd that had also gotten off there, going along with the flow towards the entrance to the American Museum of Natural History. As she stepped into the entrance and approached the ticket counter, she quickly pulled out her membership card and allowed the gentleman working there to verify it before handing it back to her. She smiled politely to him and then continued into the lower level of the museum as she shoved the card back into her satchel.

As soon as she had passed the food court annex and the stairs, she turned to the left and moved towards the elevator. Pushing the button against the wall, she then stepped back to wait for the elevator to arrive and folded her arms across her chest, each one being effortlessly supported by the other in their intertwined state. She looked first down to her slightly dirty sneakers, watching her feet as she first stood slightly on her toes and then let her feet stand flat again, and then let her eyes move up to the ceiling which was relatively low in this area. She drew in a deep breath, as if she suddenly needed more air in her lungs, and then let it out slowly and quietly. Her eyes were just starting to move along the ceiling to look slightly behind her, forcing her head further and further back, when the 'ding' of the elevator's arrival had her look instead to the doors of the elevator.

As they started to open, Jiao let her arms unfold and while one hand held onto the strap of her satchel, her free hand pushed into the back pocket of the dark denims that she wore. Once inside the elevator, she withdrew her hand from her pocket and pressed the button to take her up to the second floor before hooking her fingers back into her pocket again. As the elevator filled, she pressed herself against the side of the elevator instead of moving further into the back, reasoning that she wasn't going up to the fourth floor and so didn't want to have to ask too many people to move when she made her exit.

Along with many others, Jiao kept her eyes on the numbers as they counted off the floors as the elevator moved, stopped, and then moved again. Once it indicated the second floor, Jiao once again took her hand from her pocket and would gently touch either the arm or back of whoever was blocking her exit, effectively indicating to them that someone behind them wanted to get off at this floor. She was soon out of the elevator and immediately turned to her right and then immediately right again into the museum shop. She paused only briefly inside as she scanned the faces of those inside.

~:There he is:~ She thought to herself as she saw the face that she was looking for. She smiled and walked with purpose towards the older man that she had seen "What's stirring in the land of the mummies, Ken?" Her smile widened as she expected to see his usual bright smile in return and hear his joking reply of 'Nothing but the sand, Jiao. Nothing but the sand'.

Ken... short for Kenichi... a middle-aged, typically short, Japanese man that she had befriended at least four years ago, however just shook his head and lowered his eyes before he drew in a deep breath and let out a sigh that would make you think that the weight of the world was on his shoulders today "It's not good, Jiao. Not good at all"

Jiao's smile faded, "What's wrong?" Her brows furrowed in concern as she reached out a hand and let it rest lightly on his upper arm. "Is Masako okay? The little ones?"

"No, no. They're all fine." Ken waved off her concern, and then quickly looked around him to make sure that no one was in hearing distance before he dropped his voice down to a whisper, "There's bodies in the Egyptian exhibit up in gallery three."

Jiao frowned slightly, confusion evident across her features as she listened to him, "But, there's supposed to be bodies there. That's what mummies are... bodies."

Her voice had not been lowered to a whisper like his had been, and as she had been speaking, his eyebrows first lifted until they couldn't lift any further and he tried to silently, but urgently, to indicate to her that she should lower her voice. He looked nervously around again before he reached for her arm and pulled her closer, turning his back to the rest of the shop as he stood next to her and whispered again, "They're new bodies, not ancient like the rest that are supposed to be there. The police were called this morning and they've been swarming around the place all day so far."

Jiao's eyes widened. She hadn't noticed any police on her way up, but then again, she hadn't really been looking either. She stood there for only a brief moment longer before she whispered back to him, "I have to take a look. I'll be right back." Before he could protest, she loosened her arm from his grip and rushed out of the museum shop, intending to make her way into the Akeley Hall on the left, just past the elevator next to the shop, to look up into the large doorway of the balcony that ran along the inside of that exhibit on the third floor.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade stood over the bodies of what were once professors of New York University. In what was supposed to be used for the Museum of Natural History’s upcoming mummy exhibit lay two not-mummies, or rather, two murdered men dressed in a sick mimic of a proper mummy. The men had been moved to lie next to each other when the police had been notified of the mysterious corpses this morning, each with a thin white sheet over their faces. The two men had quickly been identified by another professor at NYU, who fortunately for the police and unfortunately for himself had come to the museum in order to see some true Egyptian mummies, not his colleagues in disturbing costume imitations, and dead.

The police had swarmed over the area this morning, though some of them had since left with evidence to tinker with. Lestrade himself had successfully gained their others’ respect as the new detective inspector, it seemed, but he still wasn’t letting his guard down. He had searched the scene himself (which was only proper, but there was a surprising and disappointingly large number of D.I.s who left the other inspectors to do the dirty work), scanning the area with an attempted analytical eye, but gaining little. If the way the bodies had been propped and dressed so carefully, the killer was smart and considered himself to have a good reason to kill these men. Revenge then, perhaps, or punishment.

The poor sods had hieroglyphs carved into their bodies in odd places as well, further supporting the revenge theory. However the symbols were strange; “man” and “affection”, if the translation one of the museum staff had given them. ‘Man affection…love? Perhaps they had been killed for being gay?’ Lestrade supposed. But from what the poor professor who had identified the bodies as Misters Goddard and Buchnell had said the two men seemed not to have been in any way romantically inclined towards each other; in fact, they seemed to have been openly homophobic. Standing above the two bodies, Lestade looked around the scene rubbing his fore finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose, thinking desperately for something to go on.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Sherlock Holmes stepped from the crowded lift with quite almost a sigh of relief. He never was one for elevators (the stairs had been equally as busy, if not even more so), and was so thoroughly thankful that he didn't have to spend another minute in it.

The reason for Holmes actually being there, in the American Museum of Natural History, was quite an odd one. Obviously not an unfamiliar situation, however. Since moving to New York, strange things had occurred extremely occasionally, and Sherlock had attempted to be there for almost every one of them. In fact, so many odd cases had seemed to take place at the same time, that he had begun to even start to note down the fine details of any crime scene he visited, when there, for future reference. Even his largely analytical mind struggled to remember the precise facts of every case at once. In fact he usually chose to forget most of the useless ones. Or at least not selectively remember them.

Oh, how he felt like a journalist, as he flipped to the first page of a small notebook, and pulled a pen from one of many pockets. And, as he was quite obviously not a part of the police (who were not unusually swarming the area, tampering with all potentially useful evidence like the hopeless people they were), must have looked like one too. Which was really a terrible thing.

It didn't take long to find what was originally intended to be a mummy exhibit - after all, just following the crowds of uniformed officials was enough - and was striding toward the bodies in no time. Perhaps it would be strange, for a detective to approach a such a scene with no less than an expression of almost-glee on his face (Sherlock would never be so openly blithe, of course), but during the time he had spent in the city, the police forces of New York must have at least grown accustomed to it.

Finally drawing to a halt near to the lifeless corpses of the university professors (Holmes obviously felt no need to inform anyone of his arrival, as he was probably expected to be there), Sherlock crouched down, and set immediately to work. He didn't even notice - or perhaps he did, but just chose not to acknowledge - the unfamiliar face. Instead, he swiftly inspected the deceased, even cast a few sweeping glances about the scene, and managed to fill the entire notebook within only a few minutes. Though not wanting to leave sentences unfinished, Sherlock simply began to write on his right arm, almost covering the entire surface with his oddly elegant, yet scrawly handwriting.
When finished, he rocked back on his heels, before straightening to stand, and staring down at the corpses with a distasteful sniff.

As he gazed around the room once more (his eyes barely pausing at the sight of the new detective), Sherlock replaced both the pen and notebook to a pocket. The man was quite obviously all set to commence a rant, displaying his current theories, until something rather unusual caught his attention.
In an Ancient Egyptian exhibit, an ordinary piece of papyrus paper would certainly not stand out. Even the great detective himself would almost think nothing of it, what with the many others scattered around the room. But, as luck would have it, a certain, trademark letter was just the sort of clue he was searching for. A specific 'M'.

Plucking the paper from where it had been possibly accidentally knocked to the floor, Sherlock was rather overjoyed to find that it was a note. Well, as overjoyed as a detective can be when discovering one's greatest nemesis was a the heart of the latest crime.
It really wasn't very unpredictable, though, considering the man's reputation.

Holmes' eyebrows knitted together as he stared at the note in his hands. Little less than half of it was simple, and extremely easy for Sherlock to understand. Or at least easy enough for him to realize that the recently written content of the notebook (and his arm) was most certainly useless.
His cheeriness extinguished almost immediately, as this realisation occurred.

Of course it was him.
And it was yet another reason for the detective's hatred to significantly increase.

He didn't detest the man for solely his crimes, per se, but the way he acted toward them. If it weren't for 'M''s immoral ways, Holmes would have a fair amount less to do with his time than he already did.
But, no, it was the attitude that irritated Sherlock.

And, of course, the fact that the man still had no definite evidence to prove his theories.
Evidence. There was plenty of evidence! All that was needed was not a mindless moron for the detective to present it to.

"Do you understand hieroglyphics?" Sherlock asked the new DI, as if in an attempt to avert his mind from his internal ponderings.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade was a very patient man, always had been. At times he wished he weren’t; his ability to endure people’s annoyances much longer than most often gave them the wrongful impression that he was a pushover, and a force to be reckoned with. And he had to admit, at times, he could be a bit of a pushover. But not at work – no, work was different. Lestrade took his work seriously, and if anybody were to even think of challenging him in his work, they’d soon regret it (Lestrade was rather devious, and his punishments can range anywhere from a strong verbal warning to replacing the person’s shampoo with hair remover, depending on how strong the insult and how bad his mood).

So it was when Lestrade paced back and forth before the limp bodies of the two dead university professors, thoroughly frustrated at the lack of haste the labs had in analyzing DNA and fingerprints, that he was not exactly in the best mood to deal with annoyingly question from innocent and curious bystanders. He’d already snapped at a few of his colleagues, who'd scurried away quickly. Perhaps that was from the fact that they hadn’t seen him angry before, not until then, but Lestrade was pretty sure that it was mainly because of the overly-loud and sweary way he’d sent them running.

So it was to say that Lestrade, at the moment, was definitely not in the mood for meeting what he had once overheard from the rest of the police men as “a mysterious tall man who shows up at crime scenes sometimes.” Of course he’d forgotten about it completely, he had after all only heard it accidentally and had been uninterested, but later would agree with that description.

“Do you understand hieroglyphics?” It was a deep, confident voice that seemed extremely loud, even though the man wasn’t by any means yelling. Lestrade turned to see a tall, handsome and curly-haired man standing next to him, holding out what looked to be a piece of papyrus. He could see that there were hieroglyphics written on it, which should’ve prompted Lestrade to say ‘Please leave, it’s a crime scene,’ but something stopped him; probably the fact that he was basically pissed at anyone daring to talk to him at the moment that wasn’t bringing news about the testing or evidence.

“Excuse me? Who are you?” Lestrade said, his questions coming out a bit harsher than intended. “This area is roped off to the police right now. You are not allowed to be here.” He glanced over at the browned piece of paper that the man was holding. He frowned and looked back up, one eyebrow raised disapprovingly. Lestrade wanted to ask, ‘Where did you get that and what the hell do you want right now,’ but common sense and a few deep breaths kept him from exploding at what was probably just an innocent man wondering what had happened.

[JIAO "JO" MAHR]

Stepping into the Akeley Hall of African Mammals, she quickly moved to stand next the large elephant that stood in the center of the room and whirled around to look up towards the large doorway on the third floor that opened onto the balcony area of the hall. Ken had been right. There were numerous uniformed police moving back and forth across the entrance, drawing quite a few stares from curious onlookers who had come to the museum today.

Jiao whirled around again and ran through the remainder of the hall to the doorway on the other side of it. A quick run through the Akeley Gallery, then the African People exhibit, and she would emerge right between the Birds of the World and the Stout Hall of Asian People exhibits where one side of the vast corridor held a flight of stairs and on the other side, a lesser known elevator was partially hidden due to an alcove. Both options would take her right up to gallery three on the third floor where the Egyptian exhibit had been set up.

Sure that the police would be watching the stairway as suggested by the police tape they had used to restrict access to it, she opted to take the elevator which she found to be empty as was very common due to its location. As soon as she had emerged on the third floor, Jiao very carefully looked out of the alcove and saw a flurry of uniforms and activity. ~:This has to be big:~ She thought to herself as she stood watching for a moment.

Since no one seemed to be paying much attention to her side of the room, she wondered if she'd be able to get a little closer. And just as she was about to move back into the alcove, biting her lower lip as she was trying to figure out a way into the thick of things so that she would be able to glean a few ideas for future plots for her stories, an opportunity presented itself "Do you understand hieroglyphics?"

Well, she wasn't doing a History minor at NYU for fun... well, yes, actually it was for fun, but that was besides the point. She did actually learn a few things too, and since Egyptian history was a particular favourite, she had picked up quite a bit on the subject both in class and during her own further studies. She didn't need another invitation and quickly ducking under the police tape as she stepped out of the alcove, Jiao moved towards the two men who were now conversing "Hieroglyphs are awesome! I thought everyone knew how to read them these days?"

Jiao kept her hands tightly clasped behind her, not wanting to be accused of messing up a crime scene by absentmindedly touching something as she moved to stand next to the taller of the two men who held the typically cream-coloured page which told her it was made of papyrus. She smiled briefly to the one gentleman who seemed to be a little flustered and about ready to lose his temper, before speaking again to the man that she was standing next to, "Do you need help with that?"

Her eyes moved quickly towards the page, eager to see what was written on it. Perhaps, if she pretended that the flustered man's words of "You are not allowed to be here." didn't apply to her either, then maybe she might be able to stay a little longer too.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

"...Who are you?"

Clicking the pen in his left hand (it was a terrible habit he had), Sherlock rolled his eyes at the Detective Inspector with a heavy sigh. The fact that he obviously was (and it had now just about been clarified) new to the force made things quite a lot more complicated. Though he really had expected to have been already explained to the man, so his presence wouldn't be a problem.
Holmes was rather disappointed.
He pulled back the papyrus and held it unusually close to his face, possibly for the first time wondering whether learning hieroglyphics would be a good decision or not.

“This area is roped off to the police right now. You are not allowed to be here.”

However, only seconds later he sharply pulled away the note, almost frowning at the man's words. But he was immediately distracted by another's:

"Do you need help with that?"
In fact, something had been said by the new voice before that, but Sherlock had either not heard it at all, or chosen to immediately forget the words after concluding they were nothing of importance. The former seemed much more likely, as Holmes' mind was currently occupied by something of what he considered to be extreme importance.
The note.
Though the latter would not be unusual at all.

Sherlock had, in fact, been willing to go on some form of hunt for someone who understood hieroglyphics. It had been fairly obvious in the first place that the DI wouldn't have been able to translate the note. In fact, the detective briefly wondered why he had even asked. But not for long, however, as his attention was captured elsewhere.
Again.
He really was terrible at concentrating on things for long.

"I am allowed to be here." He explained lightly, putting possibly as much emphasis on the 'I' as possible, "because I'm Sherlock Holmes. You really should already know me by now. She, however, isn't." He held a hand above the woman's head, and pointed down with one finger.
"But it turns out she can decipher this note. Which, at the current moment, makes her far much more important than you."

He shot a somewhat sarcastic smile, before spinning on his heel to face the woman. Holmes held out the note expectantly, hoping it wouldn't take long to translate.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

It was very hard for Lestrade not to snap the pen that the other man was clicking continuously. From the now more than agitated D.I.’s standpoint, Lestrade thought that he’d asked some perfectly reasonable questions. Perhaps a bit over-harsh, but he was police man! He was allowed things like that, wasn't he? Lestrade’s annoyance grew when the pale man began to ignore him. “Ah- hey!”

He then noticed another girl, who’d also appeared to have come in without invitation. ‘This is just not my day,’ Lestrade internally moaned. The woman was, in short, tall, pretty and also not allowed to be here.

“I am allowed to be here because I’m Sherlock Holmes.” It took a moment before Lestrade realized that the man was talking to him again. ’Inconsistent prat.’ “You really should already know me by now. She, however, isn't." Lestrade frowned, trying to recall ever being told about a ‘Sherlock Holmes’ before, but he drew a complete blank. He watched, now more confused than angry, as the man – Apparently oddly named Sherlock – pointed at the woman in what Lestrade thought a very strange and over-exaggerated manner. "But it turns out she can decipher this note. Which, at the current moment, makes her far much more important than you,” Sherlock said sarchastically, before once again going back to completely ignoring Lestrade.

Lestrade had hit clients before. God knows he’d hit lots of suspects. But he had never in his life hit someone who appeared to have absolutely nothing to do with a case because of a case. He was pretty sure he might break this record right about now. “Sir, may I ask why exactly you are allowed to be here?” Lestrade asked breathily. He was ignoring the girl’s presence for now – at least she wasn’t doing what appeared to be Sherlock's very best to bug the hell out of him – and would deal with her later when this strange, absolutely aggravating man was gone.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

"Sir, may I ask why exactly you are allowed to be here?”

Holmes froze, only moving when he turned slightly to face the man. Though he still held out the note to the woman, obviously willing her to take it, the man seemed to lose all interest in the current scene lay out (quite literally) before him.

The detective was - without intending to be self-centered - rather surprised that the name and presence of 'Sherlock Holmes' had not already been explained to the new DI. He (again, with no intentions of vanity) was somewhat of a well-known man in relations with the police force. And, when a new official didn't have a clue who he was, well, it was no less than bothersome...

Oh.
Right.

He never did get along very well with the force. In fact, he found more than most of them (possibly all) to be ridiculously idiotic morons. And wasn't extremely shy in voicing his opinions, most days. So it obviously wouldn't be unusual for any of them to want to cause him some form of annoyance.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Holmes stared at the DI as he spoke clearly, with nothing but a monotone voice.
"As it should have already been explained to you, I'm not going to bother with the unnecessary facts. But the straightforward ones consist of this - my name is Sherlock Holmes, which you obviously now know, and I am a detective. A consulting detective, to be precise, and precision is rather important. On most cases - though technically only the ones I find either at least slightly challenging or of interest - I will be assisting (the word here meaning most certainly doing most of the work) the police, as I have done for quite a while now." He said it all quite quickly, and turned back to the woman, somewhat pleased that the DI now had some sort of introduction.
"Oh, and I've almost solved thew case. So of your silence I shall be thankful - if you find you can keep quiet for a little while."

[JIAO "JO" MAHR]

As Sherlock had raised his hand to point down at her as he said, "She, however, isn't.", Jiao had frowned and moved slightly back, as if not being pointed at directly would mean that he hadn't just talked about her. His next words placated her, however, "Which, at the current moment, makes her far much more important than you.", and she smiled a little smugly.

As he held out the papyrus to her, Jiao was just about to take it when she remembered about the possibility of her own fingerprints ending up on the page. She pulled back her hand and reached into her satchel for her wrap, unfolded it and then used the edge to protect her hand as she reached for the page again. In the mean time, Sherlock and the detective seemed to be having a battle of wills judging by the way that they looked at each other while they spoke.

Jiao took hold of the page and gave it a slight tug to free it from Sherlock's grasp. She then turned from the two and did a brief scan of the area. Her gaze fell on the two covered bodies and she shuddered slightly before looking on. She moved towards a low bench not too far away from them, but in the opposite direction of the bodies. Sitting down, she placed her satchel on the seat on one side of her and the papyrus page on the other.

Bundling the wrap back into her satchel, she drew out her notebook and pen. Flipping it open to a random page, she scribbled down 'Sherlok Holms' before turning it a few more pages to a clean page. Since he thought himself so important, she was sure that she would find something out about him online and she wanted a reminder for later.

Jiao looked at the page, noting first the part written normally, and wondered who 'M' might be before she turned her attention back to the hieroglyphs "Hmm..." ~:Not too difficult at least, but I'll have to double check it later:~ She started to copy the images into her notebook.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

"Oh, and I've almost solved the case. So of your silence I shall be thankful - if you find you can keep quiet for a little while." Mister Holmes said, and Lestrade wanted nothing more than to tell him to piss off. But looking around, he realized that a few of the other police officers were watching their conversation play out with interest, but not confusion. So, obviously, Holmes was indeed telling the truth, if not somewhat the opposite of gallantly.

“Right…” Lestrade trailed off, deciding that he was a bit too tired to fight with this man – he doubted he’d ever be not-tired enough, though. His eyes flickered over to the woman, who still hadn’t introduced herself, and seemed rather amused by the whole situation. She took the sheet of papyrus from Mister Holmes in a flourish and seemed to be, quite expertly, translating the hieroglyphics on it.

“So, er, Miss, you’re not the translator, are you?” He asked, thought it was phrased more like a statement than a question, because Lestrade well knew she was not. “I’d ask you to leave, but…I’ll let this one slip, huh?” He gave a small smile, a bit annoyed at himself for accepting the lady’s presence, but she was being helpful, and he wasn’t above using the occasional good citizen, so he decided to let her stay.

A thought sprang to mind, and he turned back to Holmes, concerned. “You…What do you mean, you’ve almost got the case solved?”