The detective does not turn to register her presence, though it does register, her body filling the space beside his like the weight of a gravitational body in deep space. This far out, almost everyone has a motorbike. Far cheaper than larger vehicles, they are easier to maintain and can be repaired far more readily. The motorbikes outside of their window, going by their sounds, have been refurbished multiple times. One of them sounds like an asthmatic sewing machine. It grunts and chortles away in the darkness. A gust of wind brings the smell of incoming rain and the sweet tang of medwakh tobacco. Sherlock's shoulders settle imperceptibly.
He senses her shift beside him and his eyes briefly alight on her silhouette; he thinks he has had to have memorized and catalogued her whole range of movement by now. It has run, on loop, inside of his memory palace since their first meeting in Belgravia. In Sherlock's mind, Irene Adler is a constantly running scientific diagram, one to which he has devoted more than an allowable level of interest.
He blinks back toward the window.
"It'll pass," he says. He means the storm. He means something else, too.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2020-09-26 06:13 pm (UTC)He senses her shift beside him and his eyes briefly alight on her silhouette; he thinks he has had to have memorized and catalogued her whole range of movement by now. It has run, on loop, inside of his memory palace since their first meeting in Belgravia. In Sherlock's mind, Irene Adler is a constantly running scientific diagram, one to which he has devoted more than an allowable level of interest.
He blinks back toward the window.
"It'll pass," he says. He means the storm. He means something else, too.