Holmes's first, suspicious question earns an abbreviated bark of a laugh from him. He doesn't suppose he can fault him for the suspicion, given their interactions to date.
Holmes breaks off for a few seconds, those considerably-too-perceptive eyes weighing him by Holmes's sharp calipers. Holmes comes to his conclusions, whatsoever they are; favors him with a look of clear displeasure and a bedside manner that could do a crocodile proud. Jason laughs again, as short a sound as the first, and shrugs and gingerly extends his leg as if to say have it your way, then. One hand goes down to help pull the stained, torn fabric of his trousers of the way.
Probably it is the blood loss. Infection may not be an issue for him, but he certainly has no such immunities to something as mundane as low blood pressure, or even shock. Yes, blood loss is a nice, safe excuse for why he's still here.
He inspects his forearm while Holmes delivers competent-if-cool first aid-- less to see the injury then to check whether the cut has broken the line of ink that rings his forearm, the same one Pryor had had to cut when wearing his body, the same one he'd had to have Mick St. John help him repair. Mick St. John is no longer in the city. As the first instance of it had proved, it's damn inconvenient to try to do this one-handed.
The mental image of Sherlock Holmes helping with that, as he is helping right now with the cuts, is absurd enough that it brings another irrelevant smile to his face.
But the tattoo is intact, so there's no need to pursue his punchy humour down that mental path.
"Is the text of the book in the Latin alphabet?" is what he says aloud.
[Location]
Holmes breaks off for a few seconds, those considerably-too-perceptive eyes weighing him by Holmes's sharp calipers. Holmes comes to his conclusions, whatsoever they are; favors him with a look of clear displeasure and a bedside manner that could do a crocodile proud. Jason laughs again, as short a sound as the first, and shrugs and gingerly extends his leg as if to say have it your way, then. One hand goes down to help pull the stained, torn fabric of his trousers of the way.
Probably it is the blood loss. Infection may not be an issue for him, but he certainly has no such immunities to something as mundane as low blood pressure, or even shock. Yes, blood loss is a nice, safe excuse for why he's still here.
He inspects his forearm while Holmes delivers competent-if-cool first aid-- less to see the injury then to check whether the cut has broken the line of ink that rings his forearm, the same one Pryor had had to cut when wearing his body, the same one he'd had to have Mick St. John help him repair. Mick St. John is no longer in the city. As the first instance of it had proved, it's damn inconvenient to try to do this one-handed.
The mental image of Sherlock Holmes helping with that, as he is helping right now with the cuts, is absurd enough that it brings another irrelevant smile to his face.
But the tattoo is intact, so there's no need to pursue his punchy humour down that mental path.
"Is the text of the book in the Latin alphabet?" is what he says aloud.