[HELLO??? HE WAS STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO THE DOOR--
She comes upon him like a storm, and Holmes is not so infallible that he's immune to the pure shock and surprise of it. Stepping back on startled instinct is all that saves him from getting his poor aquiline nose smashed in, probably.
Who stands before him is a woman, certainly. An injured one, quite obviously. Running on the fumes of exacerbated emotion, most definitely. But the color of her skin, her horns atop her head. The strangeness of her eyes, and is that the tuft of a long tail he perceives? The question concerning devils is an apt one. Immediately, he seeks proof of this being a farce, a well-constructed disguise that would make even he envious, but he sees none. Where she bleeds, it is most evident that this is her pure flesh and blood that has been attacked, no doubt, by those frightened by her visage. And why wouldn't they be?
Even Holmes, ever the bohemian, is not immune to the immediate biases of a Victorian upbringing, living in a world where people do not look as such. How is this possible, he wonders, and is she dangerous? Has the devil itself graced his flat on this day, and for what reason? His mind whirs, gears shifting and spinning.]
...No. I see that this is quite a serious matter.
[But it is evidence and action, ultimately, that overrides all else, as it often does. She is scared, she is hiding, she is probably very, very lost. And she has already been so accosted, figuratively and literally, by the flagrant disdain for all those who appear different. No, there's more to it than a demon now standing before him; set aside her appearance, and everything about her feels very human.
He steps back, regaining his composure โ gestures a splayed hand towards one of the chairs beyond him, next to the fireplace.]
You're hurt. Please, sit. I am no medical professionalโ [ironically, that is not the man who found her here today] โbut I still have enough knowledge to tend to such... injuries.
no subject
She comes upon him like a storm, and Holmes is not so infallible that he's immune to the pure shock and surprise of it. Stepping back on startled instinct is all that saves him from getting his poor aquiline nose smashed in, probably.
Who stands before him is a woman, certainly. An injured one, quite obviously. Running on the fumes of exacerbated emotion, most definitely. But the color of her skin, her horns atop her head. The strangeness of her eyes, and is that the tuft of a long tail he perceives? The question concerning devils is an apt one. Immediately, he seeks proof of this being a farce, a well-constructed disguise that would make even he envious, but he sees none. Where she bleeds, it is most evident that this is her pure flesh and blood that has been attacked, no doubt, by those frightened by her visage. And why wouldn't they be?
Even Holmes, ever the bohemian, is not immune to the immediate biases of a Victorian upbringing, living in a world where people do not look as such. How is this possible, he wonders, and is she dangerous? Has the devil itself graced his flat on this day, and for what reason? His mind whirs, gears shifting and spinning.]
...No. I see that this is quite a serious matter.
[But it is evidence and action, ultimately, that overrides all else, as it often does. She is scared, she is hiding, she is probably very, very lost. And she has already been so accosted, figuratively and literally, by the flagrant disdain for all those who appear different. No, there's more to it than a demon now standing before him; set aside her appearance, and everything about her feels very human.
He steps back, regaining his composure โ gestures a splayed hand towards one of the chairs beyond him, next to the fireplace.]
You're hurt. Please, sit. I am no medical professionalโ [ironically, that is not the man who found her here today] โbut I still have enough knowledge to tend to such... injuries.