taxonomites | [location: Central]

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[location: Central]

First A. Then D, E, and G, in perfect fifths. Sooner or later, life does have to go on.

Sherlock Holmes raises the pitch pipe to his lips and blows D, E, and G, shrill and pronounced in the summer air. He prefers to tune those in relation to one another and to A, generally, not by the pipe, but it never hurts to check his strings against them.

He fusses minutely with the fine tuners, leaned against the wall. His case is at his feet. Though he expects only Extras' custom today, the look of the thing matters. To him, at least. Unlike most of the matters he deals in, there are no absolute truths in violin tuning: only the perfect fifth, one in relation to another. One may vary the tuning as much as one pleases, as long as one varies them all. Sometimes he experiments with a particular scordatura for a time; generally he tunes just a fraction brighter than G-D-A-E, though, for clarity of sound and because he doesn't expect company in harmony.

The truth is, as much as he likes to play his violin, he would rather be doing it somewhere else right now. Squirreled away indoors in the heart of one of these abandoned buildings, maybe, where he can practice in peace and pretend the city is empty until he gets tired or slinks off to Jeremy's for food, either/or. Saying hello to the other prisoners in Taxon is not his idea of fun just today.

But he generates all of his income busking. Besides, on some level he supposes he owes it to the others to make himself available, for questions or tirades or whatever else they see fit. So Sherlock keeps his odd hours, ignores his tablet (with exceptions), and keeps more than ever to himself: except on his usual odd-numbered afternoons and even-numbered evenings, where he sets up somewhere on the Taxon streets and plays his violin, to raucous and randomly-generated Extra applause.

[ooc: corresponding to dien's everybody come yell at jason post, here's my everybody come yell at sherlock post! fire away!]

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"A pleasant balance between the coastal ingredients and the rural inland produce," Long says, helpfully, as he waits for Sherlock to pack up, which doesn't take very long.

Dragon he may be (or more accurately, have been), but Long most often strongly resembles a cat, both in his general attitude regarding leisure and in the fact that when his curiosity is piqued the lethargy falls away to be replaced by insistent pursuit of the little red light. He wishes the truth of the events of the last week; he has his own deductions, of course, and he is not altogether shabby at piecing things together. But he wishes Sherlock's truth of the events as well.

So to the restaurant it is: a table in a corner. Long orders ziti in ragù and stuffed peppers, zucchini a scapece, red mullets and sausage-stuffed chicken. And bread, of course. Sherlock certainly does not go hungry at any of their language lessons (and indeed, probably usually has leftovers to take back to his home).

He requests a bottle of Aglianico and is told the restaurant does not carry it; but they do have a Taurasi so Long proclaims himself satisfied with that.

This time-consuming order placed, Mayland Long places his elbows upon the table (he considers himself bound by Western rules of etiquette only when it pleases him to be thus bound) and his long fingers together before his face, and regards Sherlock Holmes from bright eyes that gleam amber in the restaurant's warm lighting.

"I have some idea of Events," he says with the capital letter probably audible, "but I should be obliged for your version of them."

Sherlock opts for an order of pizza Margherita and wolfs down the bread with impunity in the meantime, daubing it in red-pepper-flecked olive oil. Six-feet-and-change of restless energy produces a voracious appetite, when it produces an appetite at all: it's always feast or famine with Sherlock, forgetting or foregoing meals on a regular basis and then attacking food with a shameless hunger when he cares to remember to. It's not the most healthful, but his body's seen worse mistreatment.

He is also the last Westerner in the world to care whether anyone's elbows are on a table, being given to putting his own sharp elbows wherever he pleases, including on tables and in others' personal space.

"A broad question," he observes of 'Events' through a mouthful of bread. He swallows that: "Where would you like me to start?" He sounds level and detached, like he's up for performance review.

Long's lips tug into a slight, sly smile at Sherlock's wording.

"Traditionally one starts at the beginning."

One of his hands descends from his face, snatches up one piece of bread like a raptor's claw might. The dark fingers methodically tear small bits of bread from the larger piece and likewise dip them into the oil. The pieces disappear into Long's mouth at a much slower rate than Sherlock's vociferousness.

"Perhaps with how this demon fellow came to be released, or called forth, or whatever it is...?"

"Mr. Blood and I were--"

Sherlock trails off there, in the middle of his sentence, as he realizes that the casual reference may sound a little strange out of context. Because it is, really. But how to explain the context? Though he's spent much time analyzing and cataloguing Jason Blood in his own personal encyclopedia of lives, he's put much less thought into the trajectory of his relationship with Blood, such as it exists. He often omits himself from his own observations, as an impartial third party.

But Heisenberg knew better. And so should he.

"Jason Blood and I," he says, "were acquainted in a strange manner."

He's always considered himself articulate--given to a descriptive vocabulary, when necessary. But this explanation stymies him. He settles for: "We never got on. He and I. I suppose he found me needlessly nosy; I thought he was unproductively secretive." We weren't wrong. "But we--were acquainted, and we'd encountered one another a few times. Sometimes in the Adventure Zone. Sometimes elsewhere. We were getting to be civil."

Sherlock's brow knits in a frown of contemplation, or of frustrated expression. After a moment he goes on. "The demon was certainly conspiring against that," he says. "Not only the demon, though. I don't think it was through the demon I came to learn the words for the spell. Regardless--we were in the Adventure Zone and it looked as though his life was in danger. I suppose I panicked. I suppose I also wanted to see what would happen."

He should be candid with Mayland Long. He can be candid. Or try, anyway; somehow that easy candor always finds itself stilted in situations like this.

Long listens patiently, of course. He has few other modes. He daubs bread into oil and vinegar and watches Sherlock Holmes with his eyes half-hooded.

I suppose I panicked. I suppose I also wanted to see what would happen.

"Oh, dear," Long murmurs, brows arching a fraction, lips pursed in what can only be termed avuncular disappointment. "That seems to have been a curiosity expensively satisfied."

There is no further censure beyond that, at least not from Mayland Long. He tears another fragment of bread with his raptors' fingers. Long's eyes flick to the bread, and then back to Sherlock.

"So the demon was released by this spell, and then it.... performed some enchantment upon your person?"

Long's obligatory moment of pedantry (a curiosity expensively satisfied) is met with the briefest of eye-rolls from Sherlock. The expression is without bite, however: less exasperation, more a voiceless sigh of yes, it certainly was.

"A silencing enchantment," he says. As he briefly ponders how much has changed in his year or so in Taxon that he's now taken to using the word 'enchantment' as a casual descriptor, his pizza arrives. He tears off an ambitious chunk of paper-thin crust before he elaborates: "It condensed my ability to communicate into the shape of a small violin and stole that. At first I thought it was just my voice, but I couldn't write either, and soon I lost my ability to gesture meaningfully. Very annoying." There's an understatement. "Then it strung me upside down from a tree."

Sherlock scrunches his nose. "In any case, Nuada found me. The fairy prince. He had both his arms at the time." Another entry on his sizable bill of damages. He supposes it's a good thing Taxon hasn't got a formalized system for civil suit. "He helped me and got as much of the truth out of me as I could communicate. Do you know, he's not entirely--"

--bad is the traditional end to that sentence, but that would technically be a lie. Sherlock can't really think of a definition of 'bad' for which Prince Nuada doesn't qualify. That's beside the point. "--impossible," Sherlock decides. "Just sort of. Improbable."

Long hums to himself as their food arrives, and eyes his bounty before deciding to start on the ziti first, more sedately than Sherlock is eating.

He nods slightly at Sherlock's continuing explanation.

"--ah, a violin." His lips twitch briefly at the humour of it before he remembers himself and drops the amusement from his features. "How very fairy-tale. I assumed it had to be something generally impeding your communication, of course, but that is an interesting sort of spell."

His words are dry as ever, but Sherlock, being Sherlock, can no doubt detect the deep and placid pool of distaste for magic that underlies his tone.

Another quick, bright smile at improbable-- delightful wording, that-- as he takes up a forkful of pasta.

"I have no issues with His Highness," Long says, entirely honestly. He has been nothing but polite to Nuada. Nuada has been nothing but polite to him.

"So: unable to communicate the situation in full, and unable to effect the reversal of this demonic inhabitation, you were forced into several days of waiting for circumstances to develop in a more auspicious direction."

The fork rests thoughtfully against his lower lip a few seconds, then drops back to the pasta. "That must have driven you quite mad."

It did, at first. At first Sherlock couldn't imagine anything more aggravating--had wondered if the demon had a demented urge towards irritation, among other things, like some sort of diabolical kindergartener. Every attempt to outsmart the curse just brought it down again, and stronger: writing was impossible, pantomime soon broke down into unintelligible flailing. It was maddening, all right. That was the first day.

Then it was disheartening. That's harder to convey to Mayland Long. It's something like sitting in your friend's apartment while he cooks spaghetti as you try to apply the same ballpoint pen to the same piece of paper, over and over, watching the white page cloud over with desperate blue scratches, and knowing there is absolutely nothing you can do.

"I wouldn't recommend the experience," he says with thin humor. "But it's what I would have done too, were I the demon. Although our choices might have diverged from there."

He pays tribute to Neapolitan cuisine by wadding up his next hunk of pizza and stuffing it into his mouth. "This is good," he says around it.

('Diabolical kindergartner' sums Etrigan up quite well, really.)

Long rests his chin on one hand and reaches for his wine with the other. "I wouldn't recommend anything whatsoever to do with demons. Or devils. They are very unpleasant individuals, and they cheat."

He inclines his head in acknowledgment of the merits of the food. "Yes, the ziti is very satisfactory. I have no complaints."

Several more bites pass in silence, Long regarding Sherlock through his lashes, his eyes thoughtful. He is weighing the correct course of action-- the-- the compassionate course of action.

People are very fond of asking one another if they are alright, in his experience. He personally dislikes the question when it is aimed his direction. It is somewhat offensive, really. What else should he be, if not 'alright'? His equanimity is not disturbed.

He thinks that Sherlock would regard the question with similar offence. He thinks Sherlock is similarly invested in his own sang froid. If that is the case, then the compassionate thing to do would be not to ask.

But what if he is not correct? (Rare, but known to happen.) What if Sherlock is struggling with the poisons of human existence, with regret and grief and suffering, and what if, because of his nature (in some ways similar to Long's own), nobody else offers compassion, believing like him that it would not be helpful?

Long sighs to himself. Knowing the correct path is so difficult. He wonders if he would have the same confusions had he been born human. But the young man before him is proof positive that even for those born to the life, it is not always easy nor is the path clear.

Blue hells. Long spears another piece of pasta with a decisive stab of his fork, then looks up intently to Sherlock's lean face.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock glances up in surprise, mid-mouthful. The truth is that he certainly doesn't mind the question, but he wasn't expecting it, either, and not from Mayland Long. Consciously or subconsciously, he had always patterned the Mr Long in his head after some kinder, pleasanter afterimage of his brother crossed with his father--coolheaded, distant, even awkwarder than Sherlock and much less given to displays of emotion, willing or unwilling. The most he'd have got off one of them would have been a cigarette and a clap on the shoulder, the latter a nearly unprecedented display of pity. Mycroft had put his hand on his shoulder at Father's funeral. That was as far as that sort of thing went.

He'd never liked that about Mycroft. But at least it was familiar. Open concern is a pleasant surprise when he gets it from anyone, he's just not entirely sure--what to do with it.

Well, first order of business: swallowing this somewhat overambitious bite of pizza. He does that and washes it down with a gulp that can only be termed 'unladylike' before drying his mouth off, fastidiously, and putting his hands back in his lap.

"I'm fine," he answers. "I doubt it'll come as a surprise to you to hear that I've made worse mistakes before, with more lasting consequences." He looks mirthless, but not upset, which is true. "I'm not given to self-flagellation. It isn't productive."

Moreover, he's not given to sharing it--a point of restraint to which Long ought to be able to relate, he thinks. They are neither of them given to unburdening to others. One of those stray things they have in common, the two of them.

Long listens, fingers laced before his chin. There is, perhaps, a slight undercurrent of relief that Sherlock is not about to have a breakdown in his direction. Long is not altogether sure what the compassionate response would be to that.

But such a thing is not threatening, so instead, he listens, and he nods once when Sherlock Holmes has said his bit, just as happy as Sherlock is to Leave it There.

"Well, I am pleased to hear it." (He marks that conversation off with a neat check mark in his head.) The ziti is left behind for the red mullets-- he cannot finish any of these dishes if he wishes to sample everything, and he does.

"Try the ziti. What do you suppose you ought have done differently, if anything; leaving aside the obvious of not having released the demon?"

(This question sounds like nothing so much as an essay question upon a written exam.)

Sherlock spears an overstuffed stack of ziti on his fork and takes a bite--"Oh, that's good too," he comments and helps himself to another sample of ziti. His appetite overshadows Mayland Long's, generally due to a significant difference in stature and presently because this is, unsurprisingly, his first proper meal of the day. He owes that more to absentmindedness than lack of funds at the moment.

He considers the question. All sorts of prosaic answers pass through his head on the subject of minute choices he could've made after Etrigan's release, in retrospect: trying to communicate with different people, breaking into Jason Blood's house in search of some quicker answer. He discards those as tedious and, perhaps, beside the point. What is Long really asking him here?

"There were other ways I could've pursued my curiosity with Mr. Blood in the first place," he says eventually. "Ones that might not have alienated him so quickly, or made him more paranoid. Both of which I believe I did. Both of which I think led to everything that happened here, one way or another. Granted," he grimaces, "I'm not entirely sure what they were. But there was never any real reason for us to be antagonistic. We're not actually at odds. Something about egoes, I suppose. Mine and his. Largely mine."

What he doesn't say is that he could've let the matter lie and not pursued his curiosity at all, because he doesn't believe that. Well, he could have, he supposes, but even in the face of all of this he doesn't consider that an answer. Wishing to know was not a fault--it was worth knowing. Wishing to know and to prove a point--that's different.

Long listens as placidly as he does most things, sampling another of his dishes while Sherlock Holmes reflects, and then speaks.

(Oh, the mussels are extraordinary. He puts a few more onto his plate before nudging the main dish to Sherlock's side of the table.)

As Sherlock finishes, he nods sagely (nodding sagely is something that Mayland Long would like to be good at) and lifts his wineglass again for another demure sip. Dab of napkin to the lips before answering.

" Irrigators channel waters; fletchers straighten arrows; carpenters bend wood; the wise master themselves." (Sherlock is probably quite used to Long's insertion of quoted truisms into conversation, by this point.)

The napkin is lowered again, and Long laces his fingers beneath his chin. "Whatever Mr. Blood's state of spiritual attainment, or lack thereof, answering fire with fire destroys the whole land."

Long straightens somewhat, and smiles, easily, casually, dismissing the weighty matters of philosophy with that gesture. "You must try the mussels, though."

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[location: Central]

[Location] A random ristorante

[Location] A random ristorante

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