[Sir? Don’t you know only n’er-do-wells call upon others so unexpectedly at such an ungodly hour?
Poor Mrs Hudson is spared from having to attend to it, though; perhaps she’s out of town for a few days, perhaps she’s steadfastly asleep as she deserves. Either way, the rapping receives no answer. Not yet, anyhow.
Only the dark gloom of a darkened Baker Street to keep this individual company, and a few echoing footsteps of late night wanderers coming and going.
(Maybe more so a set of footsteps approaching. Maybe.)]
[Well. He wouldn’t be the first, nor likely the last, to grace the doorstep of 221B.
Even so, it seems the footsteps will catch up to him before anyone answers the door, and the man who draws closer will be the nearest thing to a greeting he might obtain. This gentleman—dressed in tailored black, tall, with razor-sharp features, adorned with a flat-crowned hat—swoops in with slight aplomb bolstered by curiosity, though he of course stops just short of the stranger rapping on 221B’s door.
A huff, amused, despite the hour. He tucks his walking stick beneath an arm.]
[ Leland, too, leaning on his cane, dressed in black—but he is a small and lithe man whose sharpness lives namely in his smile and the one mekhanical eye whirring in its socket.
it is audible even from a slight distance, such as now, as he tilts his head and glances up at the dark sky and chuckles. ]
[Any given individual presents a man like Holmes a deluge of information to garner, to interpret. There is no difference when it comes to this stranger he's found knocking at his door, though there are instances when one attribute is so pronounced that it temporarily tamps down all else.
Needless to say, that whirring mechanical eye? It qualifies. So much so that Sherlock cannot help himself but wear an expression of pure bafflement, followed soon by intrigue, stepping even closer to the boundary of invasion of personal space to get a better look. He's never seen anything like it. It's a bit like something from a penny dreadful.
And yet still, he smiles, clearly Invested despite not knowing what the heck is going on here.]
Oh, quite so. But not lacking the use of a pocket watch, surely? No matter. You call upon the residents of 221B in the dead of the night, and fortune presents you with one of them now. What business might you have here?
[ personal invasion means little to Leland, who either invades it of his own accord, treating it with a vicious disregard, or who hardly even notices it to care. when Holmes steps forward, he simply lifts his chin—for their difference in height becomes increasingly apparent. his eyeteeth glint in the evening gloom. ]
Are you not the man other men go to when something needs doing? Everyone says so.
The "guests" he's had come unannounced in his flat run the gamut, from welcome to worrisome, on a scale of Mycroft to Moriarty. There's so little to glean from the movement of a shadow beneath his doorframe, nor the creaking steps from beyond his closed door, but he can gather that it's neither of those extremes — a step too light to account for the weight of a large, grown man. A woman, most likely, though beyond that, he cannot say.
Holmes knows which parts of the hall to avoid a creaking, groaning step underfoot, too. He's traveled up and down this corridor heaven knows how many times, so that it comes naturally and without thinking. He's a quiet entity as he draws close to the door, testing its doorknob very, very quietly. A slow turn.
[ indeed, a woman. from the subtle click of heels on the floor to the rustle of many layers of dress. and a woman under Sprezzatura Vaux's duress—would she think to lock the door?
of course not. she is hardly thinking at all, merely moving through this world on instinct and adrenaline—that combination which marks her deadly -1 to wisdom.
[A woman, indeed, then, with hurried footsteps that indicate she's either pacing or seeking something — but Holmes will not rely on sound alone for much longer.
Honestly, he should be more affronted that there's a stranger in his room, uninvited, but now he's merely curious. He opens the door... quietly. Peeks in... slowly.]
[ into a measure of chaos the flat resides in under only the most dire of circumstances: paper, everywhere. drawers open. and the woman in question hunching with her back half-turned over the dining table as she frantically pores over his ledgers. she murmurs the names to herself beneath her breath.
when the door moves—she sees it barely in the corner of her vision and feels her heart leap into her throat. a coarse cry punctuates the way she startles and tries to lunge for the adjoining water closet, a door she can hopefully lock, or at least close. she's fast, but there's no way she can disguise the colour of her skin or the curve of her horns with "fast".
[HIS ROOM IS A MESS but this actually barely registers in his mind, only noted because it is possibly correlated to why he's currently being raided by a stranger.
He was not quiet enough, not subtle enough; or she had simply been facing the wrong way all this time. But just like that, she's gone in a blur — but not blur enough to avoid Holmes catching the complexion of her skin, nor the horns that protrude from her head.
And he feels, just for a moment, something quite foreign: he is utterly baffled. His eyes so rarely deceive him, so he is wont to trust all they observe, but... blue? Horns?]
...
[Well, of course he walks right in and to the water closet's door; he can't catch her before reaching it. The door does close and lock, naturally, though he does not test if she's done the latter just yet. Just two knocks.]
It's tradition to call upon someone before barging straight into their living quarters, or so I've been told!
[ knock knock! she gulps down a frantic breath and pushes herself as far from the door (locked) as she can.
fuck! fuck! fuck!
no one can see as she gesticulates at the air, but he may hear the quiet, vexed sound of self-annoyance. next, the clinking of bottles and porcelain as she turns about the room—
[Unsurprisingly, the warrant for Clea’s arrest was still active.
But fortunately, this meant Holmes could look forward to implementing the more interesting option of smuggling her into Sickert’s exhibition. The work on his end, at least, was barely work at all. Easy enough to procure an invitation when his name is known, offering some semblance of extra publicity to the event, which was welcomed without question. His request for a plus one, his elderly grandmother who still held a fondness for art, was accepted just as easily — despite the reality of this relation being dead now for two decades. But who was to question it? None, not when the nature of Holmes’ family (excluding his brother) was nearly as mysterious as the cases he loved to unravel.
No, most of the work had been Clea’s burden to bear, from the travel to the disguise itself, though Holmes’ had called in a few favors to make the former less of a trial. He awaits her now, at the steps to the grand building housing the exhibition itself, already drawing in a steady crowd of invitees to the esteemed National Gallery.
Is he dressed for the occasion? Well. Yes and no. It’s his usual mode of professionalism — pressed white shirt beneath a black waistcoat, coupled with black trousers, a matching frock coat, and black gloves. Top hat and walking stick, too, of course. Tall and somewhat lanky, he’s a difficult figure to miss if one knows who they’re looking for.]
[ Part of Clea feels guilty. She'd enjoyed being smuggled over the Channel. Verso is dead and she is enjoying herself. Does she have that right? She does not know: some days when she awakens she thinks that the world must continue and that she must show Alicia, Maman, and Papa a way forward. Other days, she wakes and her thoughts are consumed with justice, the only pleasure she can find being to imagine the suffering she is going to visit on those who hurt her family. And still others, she wonders if matters would be proceeding more smoothly if she'd been in Alicia or Verso's positions.
Today is one of the better days. There is a small drip of joy in transforming herself under her acquaintance's directives, in donning clothing that is not her own, and in stooping her way through the doorway.
It is liberating to shed the mantle of Clea Dessendre, even if only for a single night. And in such an interesting fashion no less! It's work, but stimulating work, to remember to constantly be aware of her body and how she moves. Having spent her entire life cultivating grace, it proves to be quite the satisfying challenge to act in the opposite way, to channel the movements of someone whose body is failing them.
And nobody looks at her. Nobody whispers as she passes, nobody approaches her to offer condolences or extract information. She is completely invisible. It's a change and, surprisingly, a welcome one.
Clea spots Monsieur Holmes at the bottom of the stairs and hobbles towards him, ever the image of the elderly lady. When close enough, she tilts her head up to make eye contact, mischievous twinkling eyes showing she's having a grand time. She offers an 'unsteady' arm, inviting him to 'help' her up the stairs. ]
I'm so happy to see you! I've missed you - I wish you would visit more.
[Elderly women always wish people would visit more. Why, Clea isn't certain. Don't they have hobbies?]
[He’s patient; waiting and observing those who come and go. There are many little details in the individual that could give him entrainment in deducing their daily habits, enough that it might keep his mind occupied until his companion arrives — though she does not keep him waiting terribly long.
There she is, not looking at all how he imagines her to really be beneath that rather convincing disguise. How funny that this is how they meet face-to-face for the first time, still leaving an air of mystery between them. After all, she very much looks the part, grey-haired and hunched over, hobbling with the use of a cane as though she were a decrepit yet somehow lively thing, all the same. Determined to be here.
Holmes smiles congenially, though it is impossible for him to not hike up a brow even slightly when he catches the glint in her eyes. Ah, so she’s enjoying herself.]
Oh, you’ll have to forgive me, grandmother. You know I keep a busy schedule, and the ferry always makes me feel incurably queasy.
[This isn’t true, but if they’re making stuff up, then why not. Holmes hooks his arm with hers, unimpeded by the height difference as he leads her up the stairs. Already, the establishment feels abuzz with anticipation.]
I’ll be sure to make it up to you soon enough. Tell me, how was the trip? Not terribly exciting, I assume?
[ Clea tuts under her breath, sounding for all the world like a judgemental elderly woman, and loops her arm in his to be guided up the stairs. That part of the evening will be more annoying: She won't be able to explore on her own. On the other hand, when she reviews the exhibit, people will be beside themselves figuring out how she attended when there is no indication she left Paris. ]
Too busy for your grandmother. In my day, people respected their elders.
[ She puts her other arm on top of their interlinked arms, 'using' it to 'steady' herself even more. It would be tempted to use a singular gait, to struggle the same going up each and every stair, but in her observations Clea has noted that movement varies from step to step. She needs to move within a range of feebleness if she wants to sell the ruse.
And she very much does. Even if part of her would rather rush forward and hope for a chance to enjoy the portraits before the area is too crowded.
Sacrifices must be made. She'll convince Sikert to give her a private showing at a later date. ]
It's much easier to travel now than it was when I was a girl, but service has declined. They left me waiting for over an hour. We didn't treat our elders that way.
[ Oh, being this grumpy is fun. Perhaps Clea will go out as an old woman more often. The trip across had gone well except for a slight lack of timeliness on the part of his contacts. That seemed like something he should know just in case he needed to arrange a trip where timeliness was of the essence.
Leaning in as they walked through the door, Clea tilts her head towards the right. ]
There are some older pieces on display. I want to look at them.
[ And elderly people get to be demanding. Yes, she is looking forward to this life stage more and more. ]
[He must give her credit where it's due — she'd make for a good actress as she is a Paintress. Holmes himself is quite familiar with the art, what with him donning disguises more than a few times for a myriad of cases, the attention to detail needed, the small gestures that really sell a role.]
I have nothing but respect for you, grandmother. You are the only member of my family with any sense about you.
[Have no doubt that Holmes takes pleasure in making these little comments about his own family, finding humor in how it acts as a backhanded remark against Mycroft — but ony because it's funny, really, not because he harbors any ill-will.]
And is that so? Perhaps it was mere timing; the season is the height of travel, after all, though next time, I'll take more care with my planning.
[He hears it for what it is: a lack of expeditiousness during a few or all branches of the journey. Holmes will have to follow up on that later, but it's not currently the priority. Instead, once indoors, he removes his hat, holding it beneath the same arm as his walking stick, and casts his gaze in the direction she indicates.]
Yes, yes, as you like. I may have to push through the crowd on your behalf.
[Indeed, a crowd has ammassed. Nothing unteneable, but surely not as peaceful and solitary as she'd likely prefer.]
[ Acting isn't a skill that Clea's spent much time perfecting; the natural actor in the family had always been Verso. Still, she finds that the effort requires the perfect amount of thought: Just enough has to go into her efforts to sound elderly, in good humor, and quietly contemptuous that she can't get dragged under by the ever-swirling whirlpool of emotions that seems to have taken up permanent residence inside of her after the fire.
And it's true: She is the only member of the family with any sense. It feels good to voice the sentiment, even if it's only in passive agreement. Alicia cannot be expected to have sense, but Maman and Papa should know better.
His offer to push through the crowd for her earns him a small smile as she peers up at him. ]
You're a good grandson.
[ In other words: Yes, do exactly that. Post-haste. Ideally, two minutes ago, but Clea will settle for 'immediately'. ]
We need to examine his oldest pieces and then go straight to his newest. That will show you the contrast in the work and help you to appreciate the changes.
[ Clea has a vision in mind for how's she's going to experience this night and she will not be swayed. It is her first indulgence since the fire, is it so wrong to demand it go as perfectly as possible? ]
Then, we will circle back again and look at the pieces in order, so that we can truly appreciate the evolution of the style. Pay attention to where certain changes originate. Try to pinpoint the underlying pattern driving the evolution of style.
[ Monsieur Holmes had mentioned the most useful aspect of this outing to him was its potential in helping him to apprehend forgers. For the average person, memorizing enough of every major artist in European history would be too cumbersome. He is far from average, but he wants to keep his knowledge light. In which case, what is important to know is that an artist's development nearly always follows a larger pattern. Often, forgeries that would pass the eye of the uninformed are revealed when they're viewed by someone who can see a part of the piece which does not fit the artist's evolution. ]
( london has been abuzz with talk of a new character who has moved into one of its many streets. it's an exciting spot, with curtained doorways and carpeted floors, walls filled with esoteric tchotchkes—unlike many of the places that are more fitting of english sensibilities. wanda has found herself moving to london with her twin brother, pietro, after internal turmoil in her home and persecution of her people pushed them out towards safer shores. there's the witch hunt problem, too, which forced them towards this decision, moving away from their roots, if only to keep the suspicion ingrained in superstition removed from wanda altogether. for while pietro received no gifts from their mother, a talented romani witch, wanda inherited her abilities—and more. powerful clairvoyance, the type where a simple touch could spell out a person's entire life to her, open up their future for her to see.
london seems rife with interest in the matter, and she isn't the only so-called 'psychic' that has set up shop here. the accuracy of her readings, however, have drawn a lot of fascination from the higher classes, a lot of appointments, a lot of money. enough that pietro doesn't have to resort to shady means of employment and can be more lax about learning his way about the general populace of london, jumping from job to job, from girlfriend to boyfriend, all the while allowing wanda to 'do her thing'.
it's a terrifying thing to be able to see the future, but in some twist of fate, comically, she cannot see her own future nor pietro's. it probably is for the best, but it means that wanda is a little guarded.
she plays up her powers as neither more powerful nor wonderful than that of other psychics, she refuses to do seances, and, young as she is, she turns to others for advice when she needs it not. it's easy to play the part, especially when her accent paints a picture of an immigrant coming to the central hub of the world, of the british empire, naïve and sweet.
wanda doesn't have appointments for the rest of the day; she has taken note that most londoners don't want to try and intercede with the occult when it's rainy, and the afternoon has proven to be roiling with dark clouds and sporadic thunder, here and there. pietro has the day off and is on the search of something specific she's asked for, in covent garden, in lieu of a raspy feeling in her throat and an itch in her nose, likely a cold incoming; he's looking for their dinner, too, after getting paid for his work at construction just this morning. she sits, then, alone, in the living room, surrounded by candles and stones, books and cards.
this being an apartment in a shared home—nothing too fancy, really, in this side of the city—it is not unusual for a neighbor from upstairs to let people in the main door. looking for wanda? oh, she's a dear. just up the stairs and to your left. if the door isn't locked, you can walk right through. helpful neighbors, even if the illusion of safety can so easily be shattered.
her door is locked, though, while pietro is gone. she has something of an ominous feeling about today; a change from the norm stirring in the air. )
[Holmes was never at the heart of the web of crimes that weave themselves through London; no, the spider at that center was a different man altogether, who oversaw every little twitch of silk as it reverberated back to him. And though he would never model himself after such a man by way of moral principle, he can allow himself a particular appreciation for his methods.
The ability to trace a common denominator between crimes that have not been committed but rather solved, outside of his own purview, would be far easier to do if he sat from such a high seat, overseeing all.
But Sherlock Holmes can still manage from the street level; he always has, collecting news reports, police reports, gossip on the grapevine, occasionally reaching out to Mycroft for use of governmental direction or simple brotherly advice. And for all of his snooping, he has found that single, gossamer thread that somehow binds them all. A local psychic, new to London.
What a strange result, but he is a proponent of following trails odd and grotesque and interesting, for they are the ones that stimulate his mind the most. So, Holmes does find himself in the right place, eventually. Directed by the local neighbors and just up the stairs and to your left. If the door isn't locked, you can walk right through.
Well. The door is locked. And so, Holmes knocks, rapping gloved-covered knuckles on the door.]
( a change from the norm is definitely in the air; the knocking on the door is an uncommon sign in wanda's home, as her door goes undisturbed when she isn't up for business. pietro has his own set of keys, so this much tells her that it could be an unpleasant visitor.
but that's also the perception of someone who dislikes being the one to open doors for others who are without an appointment; she is the introverted one, whereas her brother would open the door and greet strangers without a fuss. for now, she sets her things to a neat pile on the carpet and rises to her feet, moving towards the door, feet bare, and peeks through the peephole.
a well-dressed man, gloved hands, and a particular sneering-like curl of the lips.
not a copper, at least.
heavy locks undone, wanda opens the door with some effort, pushing it outwards. her arm stretches out at the swing of it, forcing the gentleman to step back lest he wants to be hit by its frame. her hand remains on the knob, a skeptical look on her face. )
[He does not want to be hit by its frame, but thankfully the sound of locks unlocking gives him ample warning to step back before he's struck. Holmes greets her suspicion with a smile. It is not performative, nor cloying; it is born of intrigue and proper politeness, undettered and unsurprised by her hesitation.]
Good day, madam. Forgive the intrusion, but I've heard tell of a psychic in the area, and I find myself in dire need of a reading.
( the english, despite priding themselves of being a more civilized nation within their vast empire, still hold onto silly superstitions such as not reading about one's future on overcast days—much less rainy ones. wanda expected those seeking her to stick to these rather silly ideas, so—
no, it isn't an inconvenient time, but it's somewhat unexpected. the fact that it's a well-dressed gentleman isn't enough to make her feel hesitant. )
Even if it was an inconvenient time, I have the feeling you would rather not be turned away.
( the situation: ideal. nary a soul waiting for an appointment with her. wanda doesn't move away from the door, telling him the one thing that tends to turn others away, after another glance at the make of his clothes. )
It's two pounds and four shillings for a reading on a rainy day.
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finalflight2025-04-11 08:21 pm
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not to 221B, mind.
the door outside. ]
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Poor Mrs Hudson is spared from having to attend to it, though; perhaps she’s out of town for a few days, perhaps she’s steadfastly asleep as she deserves. Either way, the rapping receives no answer. Not yet, anyhow.
Only the dark gloom of a darkened Baker Street to keep this individual company, and a few echoing footsteps of late night wanderers coming and going.
(Maybe more so a set of footsteps approaching. Maybe.)]
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knock knock! he does shave and a haircut on the door. does he hear the footsteps? yes. does that stop him? no. ]
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Even so, it seems the footsteps will catch up to him before anyone answers the door, and the man who draws closer will be the nearest thing to a greeting he might obtain. This gentleman—dressed in tailored black, tall, with razor-sharp features, adorned with a flat-crowned hat—swoops in with slight aplomb bolstered by curiosity, though he of course stops just short of the stranger rapping on 221B’s door.
A huff, amused, despite the hour. He tucks his walking stick beneath an arm.]
My good sir, are you aware of the hour?
[bruh]
crawls back a thousand years later
it is audible even from a slight distance, such as now, as he tilts his head and glances up at the dark sky and chuckles. ]
Well, I'm only half-blind, aren't I?
opens my arms and engulfs you into the void
Needless to say, that whirring mechanical eye? It qualifies. So much so that Sherlock cannot help himself but wear an expression of pure bafflement, followed soon by intrigue, stepping even closer to the boundary of invasion of personal space to get a better look. He's never seen anything like it. It's a bit like something from a penny dreadful.
And yet still, he smiles, clearly Invested despite not knowing what the heck is going on here.]
Oh, quite so. But not lacking the use of a pocket watch, surely? No matter. You call upon the residents of 221B in the dead of the night, and fortune presents you with one of them now. What business might you have here?
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Are you not the man other men go to when something needs doing? Everyone says so.
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THIS TIME WITH AN ACTIVE OC VOICE
MISS VAUX IS HERE <3
The "guests" he's had come unannounced in his flat run the gamut, from welcome to worrisome, on a scale of Mycroft to Moriarty. There's so little to glean from the movement of a shadow beneath his doorframe, nor the creaking steps from beyond his closed door, but he can gather that it's neither of those extremes — a step too light to account for the weight of a large, grown man. A woman, most likely, though beyond that, he cannot say.
Holmes knows which parts of the hall to avoid a creaking, groaning step underfoot, too. He's traveled up and down this corridor heaven knows how many times, so that it comes naturally and without thinking. He's a quiet entity as he draws close to the door, testing its doorknob very, very quietly. A slow turn.
Locked or no? DID U LOCK HIM OUT OF HIS OWN ROOM]
SHE'S HERE SHE'S HERE SHE'S HERE
of course not. she is hardly thinking at all, merely moving through this world on instinct and adrenaline—that combination which marks her deadly -1 to wisdom.
the knob... turns. ]
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Honestly, he should be more affronted that there's a stranger in his room, uninvited, but now he's merely curious. He opens the door... quietly. Peeks in... slowly.]
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when the door moves—she sees it barely in the corner of her vision and feels her heart leap into her throat. a coarse cry punctuates the way she startles and tries to lunge for the adjoining water closet, a door she can hopefully lock, or at least close. she's fast, but there's no way she can disguise the colour of her skin or the curve of her horns with "fast".
FUCK ]
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He was not quiet enough, not subtle enough; or she had simply been facing the wrong way all this time. But just like that, she's gone in a blur — but not blur enough to avoid Holmes catching the complexion of her skin, nor the horns that protrude from her head.
And he feels, just for a moment, something quite foreign: he is utterly baffled. His eyes so rarely deceive him, so he is wont to trust all they observe, but... blue? Horns?]
...
[Well, of course he walks right in and to the water closet's door; he can't catch her before reaching it. The door does close and lock, naturally, though he does not test if she's done the latter just yet. Just two knocks.]
It's tradition to call upon someone before barging straight into their living quarters, or so I've been told!
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fuck! fuck! fuck!
no one can see as she gesticulates at the air, but he may hear the quiet, vexed sound of self-annoyance. next, the clinking of bottles and porcelain as she turns about the room—
IS THAT A SECOND DOOR?? ]
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real tag
WHY IS SHE SO FUNNY
coping
I don’t think you can call this coping
:SADCAT:
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But fortunately, this meant Holmes could look forward to implementing the more interesting option of smuggling her into Sickert’s exhibition. The work on his end, at least, was barely work at all. Easy enough to procure an invitation when his name is known, offering some semblance of extra publicity to the event, which was welcomed without question. His request for a plus one, his elderly grandmother who still held a fondness for art, was accepted just as easily — despite the reality of this relation being dead now for two decades. But who was to question it? None, not when the nature of Holmes’ family (excluding his brother) was nearly as mysterious as the cases he loved to unravel.
No, most of the work had been Clea’s burden to bear, from the travel to the disguise itself, though Holmes’ had called in a few favors to make the former less of a trial. He awaits her now, at the steps to the grand building housing the exhibition itself, already drawing in a steady crowd of invitees to the esteemed National Gallery.
Is he dressed for the occasion? Well. Yes and no. It’s his usual mode of professionalism — pressed white shirt beneath a black waistcoat, coupled with black trousers, a matching frock coat, and black gloves. Top hat and walking stick, too, of course. Tall and somewhat lanky, he’s a difficult figure to miss if one knows who they’re looking for.]
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Today is one of the better days. There is a small drip of joy in transforming herself under her acquaintance's directives, in donning clothing that is not her own, and in stooping her way through the doorway.
It is liberating to shed the mantle of Clea Dessendre, even if only for a single night. And in such an interesting fashion no less! It's work, but stimulating work, to remember to constantly be aware of her body and how she moves. Having spent her entire life cultivating grace, it proves to be quite the satisfying challenge to act in the opposite way, to channel the movements of someone whose body is failing them.
And nobody looks at her. Nobody whispers as she passes, nobody approaches her to offer condolences or extract information. She is completely invisible. It's a change and, surprisingly, a welcome one.
Clea spots Monsieur Holmes at the bottom of the stairs and hobbles towards him, ever the image of the elderly lady. When close enough, she tilts her head up to make eye contact, mischievous twinkling eyes showing she's having a grand time. She offers an 'unsteady' arm, inviting him to 'help' her up the stairs. ]
I'm so happy to see you! I've missed you - I wish you would visit more.
[Elderly women always wish people would visit more. Why, Clea isn't certain. Don't they have hobbies?]
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There she is, not looking at all how he imagines her to really be beneath that rather convincing disguise. How funny that this is how they meet face-to-face for the first time, still leaving an air of mystery between them. After all, she very much looks the part, grey-haired and hunched over, hobbling with the use of a cane as though she were a decrepit yet somehow lively thing, all the same. Determined to be here.
Holmes smiles congenially, though it is impossible for him to not hike up a brow even slightly when he catches the glint in her eyes. Ah, so she’s enjoying herself.]
Oh, you’ll have to forgive me, grandmother. You know I keep a busy schedule, and the ferry always makes me feel incurably queasy.
[This isn’t true, but if they’re making stuff up, then why not. Holmes hooks his arm with hers, unimpeded by the height difference as he leads her up the stairs. Already, the establishment feels abuzz with anticipation.]
I’ll be sure to make it up to you soon enough. Tell me, how was the trip? Not terribly exciting, I assume?
[Legitimate question. Any trouble on the way?]
no subject
Too busy for your grandmother. In my day, people respected their elders.
[ She puts her other arm on top of their interlinked arms, 'using' it to 'steady' herself even more. It would be tempted to use a singular gait, to struggle the same going up each and every stair, but in her observations Clea has noted that movement varies from step to step. She needs to move within a range of feebleness if she wants to sell the ruse.
And she very much does. Even if part of her would rather rush forward and hope for a chance to enjoy the portraits before the area is too crowded.
Sacrifices must be made. She'll convince Sikert to give her a private showing at a later date. ]
It's much easier to travel now than it was when I was a girl, but service has declined. They left me waiting for over an hour. We didn't treat our elders that way.
[ Oh, being this grumpy is fun. Perhaps Clea will go out as an old woman more often. The trip across had gone well except for a slight lack of timeliness on the part of his contacts. That seemed like something he should know just in case he needed to arrange a trip where timeliness was of the essence.
Leaning in as they walked through the door, Clea tilts her head towards the right. ]
There are some older pieces on display. I want to look at them.
[ And elderly people get to be demanding. Yes, she is looking forward to this life stage more and more. ]
sorry for the delay!!
I have nothing but respect for you, grandmother. You are the only member of my family with any sense about you.
[Have no doubt that Holmes takes pleasure in making these little comments about his own family, finding humor in how it acts as a backhanded remark against Mycroft — but ony because it's funny, really, not because he harbors any ill-will.]
And is that so? Perhaps it was mere timing; the season is the height of travel, after all, though next time, I'll take more care with my planning.
[He hears it for what it is: a lack of expeditiousness during a few or all branches of the journey. Holmes will have to follow up on that later, but it's not currently the priority. Instead, once indoors, he removes his hat, holding it beneath the same arm as his walking stick, and casts his gaze in the direction she indicates.]
Yes, yes, as you like. I may have to push through the crowd on your behalf.
[Indeed, a crowd has ammassed. Nothing unteneable, but surely not as peaceful and solitary as she'd likely prefer.]
Me too - I got sick -_-
[ Acting isn't a skill that Clea's spent much time perfecting; the natural actor in the family had always been Verso. Still, she finds that the effort requires the perfect amount of thought: Just enough has to go into her efforts to sound elderly, in good humor, and quietly contemptuous that she can't get dragged under by the ever-swirling whirlpool of emotions that seems to have taken up permanent residence inside of her after the fire.
And it's true: She is the only member of the family with any sense. It feels good to voice the sentiment, even if it's only in passive agreement. Alicia cannot be expected to have sense, but Maman and Papa should know better.
His offer to push through the crowd for her earns him a small smile as she peers up at him. ]
You're a good grandson.
[ In other words: Yes, do exactly that. Post-haste. Ideally, two minutes ago, but Clea will settle for 'immediately'. ]
We need to examine his oldest pieces and then go straight to his newest. That will show you the contrast in the work and help you to appreciate the changes.
[ Clea has a vision in mind for how's she's going to experience this night and she will not be swayed. It is her first indulgence since the fire, is it so wrong to demand it go as perfectly as possible? ]
Then, we will circle back again and look at the pieces in order, so that we can truly appreciate the evolution of the style. Pay attention to where certain changes originate. Try to pinpoint the underlying pattern driving the evolution of style.
[ Monsieur Holmes had mentioned the most useful aspect of this outing to him was its potential in helping him to apprehend forgers. For the average person, memorizing enough of every major artist in European history would be too cumbersome. He is far from average, but he wants to keep his knowledge light. In which case, what is important to know is that an artist's development nearly always follows a larger pattern. Often, forgeries that would pass the eye of the uninformed are revealed when they're viewed by someone who can see a part of the piece which does not fit the artist's evolution. ]
psychic au⟢
london seems rife with interest in the matter, and she isn't the only so-called 'psychic' that has set up shop here. the accuracy of her readings, however, have drawn a lot of fascination from the higher classes, a lot of appointments, a lot of money. enough that pietro doesn't have to resort to shady means of employment and can be more lax about learning his way about the general populace of london, jumping from job to job, from girlfriend to boyfriend, all the while allowing wanda to 'do her thing'.
it's a terrifying thing to be able to see the future, but in some twist of fate, comically, she cannot see her own future nor pietro's. it probably is for the best, but it means that wanda is a little guarded.
she plays up her powers as neither more powerful nor wonderful than that of other psychics, she refuses to do seances, and, young as she is, she turns to others for advice when she needs it not. it's easy to play the part, especially when her accent paints a picture of an immigrant coming to the central hub of the world, of the british empire, naïve and sweet.
wanda doesn't have appointments for the rest of the day; she has taken note that most londoners don't want to try and intercede with the occult when it's rainy, and the afternoon has proven to be roiling with dark clouds and sporadic thunder, here and there. pietro has the day off and is on the search of something specific she's asked for, in covent garden, in lieu of a raspy feeling in her throat and an itch in her nose, likely a cold incoming; he's looking for their dinner, too, after getting paid for his work at construction just this morning. she sits, then, alone, in the living room, surrounded by candles and stones, books and cards.
this being an apartment in a shared home—nothing too fancy, really, in this side of the city—it is not unusual for a neighbor from upstairs to let people in the main door. looking for wanda? oh, she's a dear. just up the stairs and to your left. if the door isn't locked, you can walk right through. helpful neighbors, even if the illusion of safety can so easily be shattered.
her door is locked, though, while pietro is gone. she has something of an ominous feeling about today; a change from the norm stirring in the air. )
hell yeah it is Time
The ability to trace a common denominator between crimes that have not been committed but rather solved, outside of his own purview, would be far easier to do if he sat from such a high seat, overseeing all.
But Sherlock Holmes can still manage from the street level; he always has, collecting news reports, police reports, gossip on the grapevine, occasionally reaching out to Mycroft for use of governmental direction or simple brotherly advice. And for all of his snooping, he has found that single, gossamer thread that somehow binds them all. A local psychic, new to London.
What a strange result, but he is a proponent of following trails odd and grotesque and interesting, for they are the ones that stimulate his mind the most. So, Holmes does find himself in the right place, eventually. Directed by the local neighbors and just up the stairs and to your left. If the door isn't locked, you can walk right through.
Well. The door is locked. And so, Holmes knocks, rapping gloved-covered knuckles on the door.]
no subject
but that's also the perception of someone who dislikes being the one to open doors for others who are without an appointment; she is the introverted one, whereas her brother would open the door and greet strangers without a fuss. for now, she sets her things to a neat pile on the carpet and rises to her feet, moving towards the door, feet bare, and peeks through the peephole.
a well-dressed man, gloved hands, and a particular sneering-like curl of the lips.
not a copper, at least.
heavy locks undone, wanda opens the door with some effort, pushing it outwards. her arm stretches out at the swing of it, forcing the gentleman to step back lest he wants to be hit by its frame. her hand remains on the knob, a skeptical look on her face. )
Yes?
no subject
Good day, madam. Forgive the intrusion, but I've heard tell of a psychic in the area, and I find myself in dire need of a reading.
[That same grin quirks a little.]
Have I come at an inconvenient time?
no subject
no, it isn't an inconvenient time, but it's somewhat unexpected. the fact that it's a well-dressed gentleman isn't enough to make her feel hesitant. )
Even if it was an inconvenient time, I have the feeling you would rather not be turned away.
( the situation: ideal. nary a soul waiting for an appointment with her. wanda doesn't move away from the door, telling him the one thing that tends to turn others away, after another glance at the make of his clothes. )
It's two pounds and four shillings for a reading on a rainy day.