Hit the lights!

[nickidevine.livejournal.com]

Who: Nicki and Sherlock! Or anyone else that comes by.
What: Play time 8D
Where: 2nd floor common area
When: Day two, night
Status: In Progress
Warnings: Nope!

Both Eric and that odd man in the journal had told him that there were more people in the house. More people, and blood, more actors. Once Nikki had decided it was safe, he poked his head out of his door, and looked into the quiet common room in awe. It was bright, and happy. Huge and warm. Other doors along the hall were marked like his was, and he took a mental note of his door number. This would be perfect. Exactly what he needed.

Cut to a hour later, and he was almost done a very crude, small stage in the room. The curtains were made out of bedsheets (As was his cape), string and other things held the stage together, which was made out of random things. Mostly wood from his fireplace, and a big pile of books laid strewn next to it. 200 years worth of playwrights he’d sucked in. He would stop to play his violin here and there, loud and crazy enough to wake the dead. Or a very moody detective.

He was still in the same clothes. Messy white frilly shirt, leggings and boots to his knees. His hair looking as crazy as he was, half tied in a black ribbon that was loosing the battle. A crown made out of tinfoil, which he thought was an amazing substance.  His cheeks, though, were flush. He’d tracked down blood from the Medical Ward (And stolen a few rolls of gauze to put parts of his stage together)

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[i-never-guess.livejournal.com]

Sherlock was still sulking after his lost competition against John earlier that day, laying in his bed with the covers pulled high over his head. He was only glad that whoever that roommate of his was had disappeared (he hadn't bothered checking his journal for any messages) and left the room all to himself. It wasn't that he really liked to be alone... He normally hated it, in fact, even if the person wasn't exactly brilliant, it still was enjoyable to at least have someone to talk to. Or talk at.

With a sigh, he rolled over in his bed, irritably pulling the covers over his head when... What on earth. He bolted up from beneath the covers, looking wildly about at the infernal racket, eyes immediately darting to his own violin, sitting very neatly in its spot where he had left it. He frowned and grabbed it, stumbling out of bed and into the hallway, clutching his bow in one hand and the body in the other, walking about in his bathrobe, t-shirt and boxer shorts.

As he entered the common room, he ignored the oddity of it all, situated his own violin and began to play. He had a similar method of playing random notes, stringing them together as if he were trying to play a song but really didn't know which one to pick.

[of-my-tomorrows.livejournal.com]

Victoria had seen the stage over the journal.

She had seen it, and she had to admit that she was equal parts concerned and worried, but she was interested as well. And really, when did common sense and cautiousness ever win out when Victoria got curious? The answer is never. There was a slight nervousness, though, given that the person who built it insisted that he was a vampire, but Victoria figured that, should she need to call for help, someone would hopefully be close by.

Everyone knew vampires weren't real, anyway.

Victoria walked down to the second floor from her room and into that floor's common room, trying to be as quiet as possible. It was quite a sight, and she paused momentarily just to take that in. And that was when she noticed the pile of books. She walked over to one and picked it up, starting to flip through it.