"Blast," that idiotic fog was rolling in. Oh, he'd heard of what it meant, seen the brochures, seen the 'monsters' (which admittedly took him to a near-breakdown to accept them as reality), but he was worried more about being eaten himself than what was about to happen to him.
Clutching his umbrella, the tall, slim man scurried down the street as the air grew thicker, pointedly ignoring the itching that came on quite suddenly. Without much more warning, the itching reached a fever-pitch and he could not bear it any longer. "Damn--" He scrambled over to a bench (really, this was entirely too much physical activity for the day, he hated legwork) and sat down, muttering under his breath and untying his shoes, just a quick scratch, he probably used the wrong sort of soap--
--when he removed his sock, his foot sort of just...sank. Like it was boneless in his hands. That was--horrifying. And it was still terribly itchy, he couldn't help but scratch, but instead of skin there were dark, shiny green scales.
"No." That was just it, he refused this reality. No, he wasn't going to accept that his bloody foot was scaly and boneless.
Several minutes later, and a pained, recovering middle-aged man would be seen trying to drag a rather large bulk into an alleyway, several pieces of clothes shredded, and a very last-ditch attempt to recover any dignity he had left.
4b - Slime
Mycroft wasn't feeling well that afternoon, probably had a fever because he'd been sweating buckets and buckets, which did absolutely nothing for the three-piece suit he always wore, even in this ridiculous place.
Right now he decided the best thing to do was find the coldest air-condition he could find, which wasn't all that common as summer was winding down, but he'd managed to find a particularly chilly cafe. He didn't frequent cafes, but this was a downright emergency as he'd soaked right through his vest and jacket, people giving him funny looks as he entered, his umbrella tap-tapping as he walked inside and stood in line to order.
It was all very well and good, though he didn't notice how his right hand was now sinking and literally collecting inside his umbrella.
Mycroft Holmes | BBC Sherlock
"Blast," that idiotic fog was rolling in. Oh, he'd heard of what it meant, seen the brochures, seen the 'monsters' (which admittedly took him to a near-breakdown to accept them as reality), but he was worried more about being eaten himself than what was about to happen to him.
Clutching his umbrella, the tall, slim man scurried down the street as the air grew thicker, pointedly ignoring the itching that came on quite suddenly. Without much more warning, the itching reached a fever-pitch and he could not bear it any longer. "Damn--" He scrambled over to a bench (really, this was entirely too much physical activity for the day, he hated legwork) and sat down, muttering under his breath and untying his shoes, just a quick scratch, he probably used the wrong sort of soap--
--when he removed his sock, his foot sort of just...sank. Like it was boneless in his hands. That was--horrifying. And it was still terribly itchy, he couldn't help but scratch, but instead of skin there were dark, shiny green scales.
"No." That was just it, he refused this reality. No, he wasn't going to accept that his bloody foot was scaly and boneless.
Several minutes later, and a pained, recovering middle-aged man would be seen trying to drag a rather large bulk into an alleyway, several pieces of clothes shredded, and a very last-ditch attempt to recover any dignity he had left.
4b - Slime
Mycroft wasn't feeling well that afternoon, probably had a fever because he'd been sweating buckets and buckets, which did absolutely nothing for the three-piece suit he always wore, even in this ridiculous place.
Right now he decided the best thing to do was find the coldest air-condition he could find, which wasn't all that common as summer was winding down, but he'd managed to find a particularly chilly cafe. He didn't frequent cafes, but this was a downright emergency as he'd soaked right through his vest and jacket, people giving him funny looks as he entered, his umbrella tap-tapping as he walked inside and stood in line to order.
It was all very well and good, though he didn't notice how his right hand was now sinking and literally collecting inside his umbrella.