finalflight | OPEN POST; [ HERLOCK SHOLMES / TGAA ]

[Ah, she looks… worse for wear. Sholmes actually feels a little bad for her, despite himself; he should have tried harder to be more careful.]

We did not. The man leapt out of the way just in time.

[Hopefully that’s reassuring.]

…Are you all right, Ms Sapione? I’ll make you a cuppa once we’re indoors to soothe your nerves.

[ she levers up, begins to fragilely disembark. her fears, that Sholmes' driving will lead a crowd right to them, is less extreme than the need to get indoors before someone spots her. ]

Unlock door.

[Well, she can walk, in any case. Sholmes straightens both his posture and demeanor as she gets out, closing the door behind her. Then it's a quick-step to the front door, easily unlocked. Baker Street, at this hour, is the perfect amount of busy — enough to where the flow of the street continues at its own pace as soon as the runaway carriage had come to a stop, all attention turning inward to everyone's personal routines by default. He doubts her horns will be noticed, and the rest is taken care of by her borrowed, oversized coat.

He ushers her inside; the layout is the same as she remembers, even if the decor has changed. Lower floor, and stairs leading up to 221B.]

You're safe now.

[ she shoulders inside with little grace. there, faced with the entry, the stairwell—familiar, but different. still "home".

her feet suddenly root to the floor, just inside, and only for a moment. that's all she allows herself before she instinctively forces herself towards the stairwell. ]

[Sholmes closes and locks the door behind him, calmly watching as the strange horned woman pauses for a brief moment in the entryway, only to go straight for the stairwell without even his prompting.]

...

[Well. He follows behind to see if she does carry herself up the steps, first.]

I should warn you that my flat is not... in an acceptable state to receive guests. I hope that won't be a problem.

[ whether he follows or waits, Sprezzatura begins the ascent, clutching the banister rail in a pale-knuckled grip. she feels unsteady on her feet, as though she finds herself crossing the deck of a ship and not the entryway to a London flat.

so quiet as to be virtually subvocal, ] It won't be.

[ he has no idea how little it will matter to a woman like her ]

So you say.

[No, he has no idea. But it's pretty bad up there.

And interestingly enough, she treads up the stairs without even a wonder if 221B is located there in the first place — she's correct, of course, but she moves in a way that implies less curiosity and more... assumption? How odd.

When they do reach the top, he takes the lead, unlocking the door to 221B. It swings open and, out of habit, he waits for her to enter first.]

Here we are.

[It's like ten times messier than the 221B she knows. It's the epitome of bachelor pad, and very obviously, too: only one man lives here, no proof of a young girl making half of the sitting room her own. Not even the whiff of any kind of partner or roommate that he shares this flat with.

Papers everywhere. Books piled up. Violin in the corner. Pieces of a tea set scattered, leaving rings on the flooring. Curtains drawn, blocking out the already dreary London morning sun. Smells like tobacco; nothing new. Smells even faintly of... something else. A little bit new.]

I'll make you that tea.

[ swaying inside, she takes stock of the room without really processing it. it looks so like what she expects—worse, that's not a word she applies—and so much like a stranger's place. the home of Herlock Sholmes that someone who does not know him would imagine.

no Iris. no joy.

she drifts to the settee.... and sits. on the paper and everything. ]

[She could have sat on the floor, or on the trunk, and he wouldn’t have cared. There is no sanctity of space in this version of 221B, only the whirlwind of Sholmes’ mind and the uncaring of his ennui, made manifest in the chaos.

Again, he locks the door behind him as he steps in. And again, he casts her a glance. Has she nothing to say? Is she in shock, post-harrowing carriage ride?]

Ms Sapione?

[ the sound of the lock sends a prickle down her neck, makes her want, badly, to say, "Don't call me that."

but she's got will enough to hold it in, and instead presses her fingers very hard to her temples until the pressure allieves some of the ache, then sniffles, once, then pulls her hair over one shoulder and pulls on what remains of the plait. a heavy sigh, full of resignation and weight. ]

Tea is good.

Edited 2025-02-19 00:56 (UTC)

[She’s the very image of stressed and harried. He thinks, perhaps, if she was more honest with him, it would alleviate some of that anxiety.]

Very well.

[He will gather up… all that’s needed, here and there, crossing about the flat. Rustling, rustling.]

Perhaps it’s time for a proper introduction, as well. I’d not call our meeting very ordinary.

[ she wishes he would leave the room. his sleeping quarters are too far away for her to steal into unawares. but what man in his right mind would leave a woman like her alone in his flat? of course he wouldn't. he might even suspect her of a desire for theft.

it isn't as though he's made it hard to steal from him... ]

I told you my name.

Ha, but I did not offer mine, did I?

[Honestly, what could she steal that he’d miss or could not eventually replace with ambivalence? His violin, maybe — but that would require her to sneak out into public, something she’s afraid of doing. No, he doesn’t think her a thief.]

Herlock Sholmes, at your service.

[No proud attachment of profession to that name, though.]

[ only his name alone. sets her thumb between her front teeth and bites down lightly, that little divot in the nail which never heals from this habit. ]

How old are you, Herlock?

[H-Herlock? SO INFORMAL... THEY JUST MET...]

Er.

Eighteen.

[a grown-ass man, clearly]

Why do you ask?

[ just. closes her eyes. brings her other hand to brace at her chin, as well, and for a long moment she says nothing else. ]

I don't know.

[ it comes out like the sigh of an old dog seeking a comfortable place to sleep. ]

[Hm. It feels, somehow, like another dangling piece of a connection that he merely needs to find the other end of, but for now, he fusses with getting the tea ready. It's more trouble than it needs to be, especially with how efficient she'll remember Iris being, but eventually... with some clinking and seeking and making sure certain cups are clean enough, the scent of tea seeping begins to overtake the tobacco scent of the room.]

I assure you that my age has no relation to my ability to help you find where you need to go. However, that does rely upon some amount of trust on your part.

[ every clink and rattle of china feels like a needle in her back.

beginning to think... that this was terribly unwise of her. to come here, with him, and expose herself to the lightning mind that lives beneath. of course he would not leave things be without unraveling them. it would have been easier to find an icy river and jump in. but Sprezzatura Vaux would never do such a thing, only think about it when the anger and fear smothers in.

she opens her eyes again and turns to watch him work. his lithe frame, now that he's shed of his coat, is particularly easy to watch, even now. ]

Nothing I say will mean anything to you. I sound like raving woman.

[The tea steeps and Sholmes wastes no time in seeking out his pipe in the meanwhile. It's resting atop the fireplace, easily picked up and put between his lips as he finds a match next.]

Ms Sapione, should I present the current situation to you once again? You are a blue-skinned, horned, tailed woman with a Russian accent seated in my flat as a guest. Someone who I assume has some measure of belonging in this world, dare I say this city, but is for some reason hesitant to provide more detail. At this rate, I am eager to hear more from you, whether or not it sounds delusional.

What might you plan on doing otherwise? Sit here and hope a solution falls into your lap?

[ oh, yes, he can list the facts off very well, knowing that should all else be shorn away, what remains before him—no matter how otherworldly—must be the truth. he can't argue her away, because she is here. ]

I am from Toril. I do not belong here.

[A match is found and a flame is struck. He lights his pipe, reusing what remains of the packed tobacco from the day before.]

Mm. Toril. Where those who look like you are not an uncommon sight, am I correct in saying so?

[ with true bitterness: ] Perhaps do. We are yet reviled for it.

[With a tone like that? He’s apt to believe it.]

But you hardly walk the streets with the same amount of fear as you did today, I imagine?

[ ... she turns her face into the collar of his coat, not answering. yet her tail, having coiled about an ankle, squeezes visibly. ]

[Hm. Seems answer enough.

Sholmes puffs a plume of smoke and returns to the tea. He pours her a cup and walks to the chaise, offering it. It’s strong, and dark.]

Were you displaced for very long before I, ah… found you?

[He seeks contradictions.]

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