Sherlock grins brightly back at him, first at Jeremy's delight and willingness to play along, then at his inference about the map: by the end he's nodding as if to say, yes, yes, that's it, you've got it! What has he become, he wonders shortly, someone who's desperate for a scrap of an intelligence from a stranger? Or recognition? Is that what this place has reduced him to?
But then again, has he ever not been? It's cold and Sherlock's flat has moved of its own volition and he's been comatose for weeks pinned to a table, and on top of all of that everyone has forgotten about him. He can't help but return to that, even knowing as it does that it happens to everyone: forgotten. It's put him in a low mood, when he's not in the Adventure Zone putting off his moods like creditors calling him again and again. He hasn't had a meal with another person in at least three weeks.
Whoever Jeremy Fischer is, even if he turns out to be a werewolf himself, or a ghoul, or the bloody Tooth Fairy herself--Sherlock doesn't care. There's a word for how Sherlock is feeling right now; he dismisses desperate for too pathetic and inaccurate besides, and it is. This is a bit more grey. He settles on melancholy. The correct word is lonely, but it does not occur to him.
"I don't do tricks for money," he answers Jeremy after a moment, leaning his violin against his shoulder. "I do tricks for my own amusement." And sometimes other people's. "So do you, don't you? It's all right. No one starts out in this for the money--there isn't a great deal of money in it, I don't even need to look at you," he nods to Jeremy up and down, "to tell that. And--it's Sherlock Holmes. Holmes is the surname. Sometimes there's confusion."
He hesitates as soon as he says it, as it occurs to him: Jeremy is not overtly magical. Nor is he overtly historical. There's a substantial chance that they may be from the same time and place. If he's heard of me-- His mind goes back to John Watson and James Moriarty, but no, there's no use in that, not yet. Instead he tilts his head and asks, "Obama wins his re-election, doesn't he?"
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But then again, has he ever not been? It's cold and Sherlock's flat has moved of its own volition and he's been comatose for weeks pinned to a table, and on top of all of that everyone has forgotten about him. He can't help but return to that, even knowing as it does that it happens to everyone: forgotten. It's put him in a low mood, when he's not in the Adventure Zone putting off his moods like creditors calling him again and again. He hasn't had a meal with another person in at least three weeks.
Whoever Jeremy Fischer is, even if he turns out to be a werewolf himself, or a ghoul, or the bloody Tooth Fairy herself--Sherlock doesn't care. There's a word for how Sherlock is feeling right now; he dismisses desperate for too pathetic and inaccurate besides, and it is. This is a bit more grey. He settles on melancholy. The correct word is lonely, but it does not occur to him.
"I don't do tricks for money," he answers Jeremy after a moment, leaning his violin against his shoulder. "I do tricks for my own amusement." And sometimes other people's. "So do you, don't you? It's all right. No one starts out in this for the money--there isn't a great deal of money in it, I don't even need to look at you," he nods to Jeremy up and down, "to tell that. And--it's Sherlock Holmes. Holmes is the surname. Sometimes there's confusion."
He hesitates as soon as he says it, as it occurs to him: Jeremy is not overtly magical. Nor is he overtly historical. There's a substantial chance that they may be from the same time and place. If he's heard of me-- His mind goes back to John Watson and James Moriarty, but no, there's no use in that, not yet. Instead he tilts his head and asks, "Obama wins his re-election, doesn't he?"