The highway loops like an ornamental ribbon around the edge of Muscat, showcasing the harbor and the much-lauded opera house, the fashionable shopping district and the palatial homes that leach their afternoon heat to a chilly midnight air. The Four Runner flies like an arrow past these tender offerings, past rapidly gentrifying neighborhoods like Al Azaiba and Al Qurum, toward the tentacles of the outer city. The Hajar Mountains loom like a broken spine against the starry horizon. Sherlock does not look to the passenger side of the car once during their drive, but he feels the heat of the body in the seat next to his and senses how closely she is guarding her candor, much the same as she protects every facet of her duplicitous lifestyle.
After about half an hour, Sherlock exits the highway and guides the Four Runner onto a series of narrow dirt paths. The homes here are more rustic than those in the heart of the city; these are generational homesteads, intimate family spaces. Sherlock slows the Four Runner to a crawl on a residential street, then eases to a stop in the alley of a four-storey apartment complex. Lamplight flickers in a few of the windows; many other windows are dark. There is electricity here, and running hot-and-cold water, but they are clearly luxuries. Sherlock stops the engine and gets out, slinging both "go" bags over his shoulder. He quickly switches license plates and then drapes the vehicle in a dusty tarp, not dissimilar from the other vehicles on the street.
With a look to Irene, Sherlock proceeds into the darkened foyer of the building. A once-resplendent chandelier hangs in the lobby, its brass arms fuzzed with dust and disuse. Sherlock mounts the stairs to the second floor, where he proceeds down a long corridor that smells of intoxicating spices. Producing a key from somewhere on his person, he lets them both into a small but functional apartment. There is a table, a hot plate, a prayer rug, and a single bed in the main room. A darkened doorframe on the far side of the room leads to the apartment's only bathroom, thankfully fitted with a copper tub and hot water. Sherlock has made sure that the bathroom is stocked with a full first-aid kit in advance of their stay. He drops one of the "go" bags -- hers, by all accounts; packed with a change of clothes in her size, as well as a few feminine hygiene products -- inside of the bathroom door. He turns to face her, his expression sphinx-like. His gaze lingers on the uniform she's wearing. A slight downturn of his left lip.
"Might have been a bit excessive with that," he admits of the uniform, then turns to the hotplate. A cuppa' is in order.
no subject
After about half an hour, Sherlock exits the highway and guides the Four Runner onto a series of narrow dirt paths. The homes here are more rustic than those in the heart of the city; these are generational homesteads, intimate family spaces. Sherlock slows the Four Runner to a crawl on a residential street, then eases to a stop in the alley of a four-storey apartment complex. Lamplight flickers in a few of the windows; many other windows are dark. There is electricity here, and running hot-and-cold water, but they are clearly luxuries. Sherlock stops the engine and gets out, slinging both "go" bags over his shoulder. He quickly switches license plates and then drapes the vehicle in a dusty tarp, not dissimilar from the other vehicles on the street.
With a look to Irene, Sherlock proceeds into the darkened foyer of the building. A once-resplendent chandelier hangs in the lobby, its brass arms fuzzed with dust and disuse. Sherlock mounts the stairs to the second floor, where he proceeds down a long corridor that smells of intoxicating spices. Producing a key from somewhere on his person, he lets them both into a small but functional apartment. There is a table, a hot plate, a prayer rug, and a single bed in the main room. A darkened doorframe on the far side of the room leads to the apartment's only bathroom, thankfully fitted with a copper tub and hot water. Sherlock has made sure that the bathroom is stocked with a full first-aid kit in advance of their stay. He drops one of the "go" bags -- hers, by all accounts; packed with a change of clothes in her size, as well as a few feminine hygiene products -- inside of the bathroom door. He turns to face her, his expression sphinx-like. His gaze lingers on the uniform she's wearing. A slight downturn of his left lip.
"Might have been a bit excessive with that," he admits of the uniform, then turns to the hotplate. A cuppa' is in order.