"Not on your forehead, anyway," Sherlock answers with a chuckle; Jeremy's caught him more in his element than he ever is in Taxon, really, playing for an audience and one more interested in his tricks than most, at that. He's odd, of course: there's no mistaking that the man is definitely odd. But who isn't, around here?
Or around wherever-this-is, anyway.
He snaps his fingers a few times to set a time for Jeremy to keep, indicating he'll answer him once they're done with their odd little impromptu jam session: then they launch into the Black Keys. Sherlock improvises well, more like a jazz musician than a classically trained one, and at times it's doubtful how classically trained he is at all. He's wandered far from the fold, that much is clear. At one point he shoulders his bow and plays the strings of his violin like a shrill little acoustic guitar.
"You live somewhere out West, everything you say tells me that," says Sherlock when he's finished. "You haven't your whole life. I think that's a little New York or New Jersey I hear, though. You say water like wooter, don't you? Anyway--you're a performer, though I'm sure that's not all you are," the wink he gives Jeremy seems to have a mildly sinister meaning, but also carries an edge of I won't tell, "but the only sorts of performers they take in Los Angeles are pretty and specialized. You're plain and you're charming. You'd be a bust in LA. But you're in a city, I know it: I suppose after you left school you went for Sin City? It was London for me. The closest we've got is Brighton," he says conversationally, "and believe me, if you had Brighton, you'd go to London too."
He turns up his coat collar against the wind. "And I think that's a few more credits you just got," he adds, "for performing with me. Congratulations, Jeremy Fischer, is it? You're gainfully employed."
no subject
Or around wherever-this-is, anyway.
He snaps his fingers a few times to set a time for Jeremy to keep, indicating he'll answer him once they're done with their odd little impromptu jam session: then they launch into the Black Keys. Sherlock improvises well, more like a jazz musician than a classically trained one, and at times it's doubtful how classically trained he is at all. He's wandered far from the fold, that much is clear. At one point he shoulders his bow and plays the strings of his violin like a shrill little acoustic guitar.
"You live somewhere out West, everything you say tells me that," says Sherlock when he's finished. "You haven't your whole life. I think that's a little New York or New Jersey I hear, though. You say water like wooter, don't you? Anyway--you're a performer, though I'm sure that's not all you are," the wink he gives Jeremy seems to have a mildly sinister meaning, but also carries an edge of I won't tell, "but the only sorts of performers they take in Los Angeles are pretty and specialized. You're plain and you're charming. You'd be a bust in LA. But you're in a city, I know it: I suppose after you left school you went for Sin City? It was London for me. The closest we've got is Brighton," he says conversationally, "and believe me, if you had Brighton, you'd go to London too."
He turns up his coat collar against the wind. "And I think that's a few more credits you just got," he adds, "for performing with me. Congratulations, Jeremy Fischer, is it? You're gainfully employed."