notquiteheartless | Deduction 1

Deduction 1 - [ written ]

[Sherlock Holmes has been on bedrest for about 48 hours.

However, when his doctor decides to go out for supplies and to see if any of the detective's clothes have shown up (it was either that or let the man get up and see himself, and apparently that was not going to be allowed)... the patient lets himself get up. Not much, just enough to make it into the sitting room.

Which is just as white-washed as the bedroom. Damn it.

Once he can stand to be on his feet for more than ten minutes at a time, those walls are getting painted or papered or something.

He's had time enough to read his Journal and the Guide it contains, and the system itself is straightforward enough. Something like a computer but not quite as efficient. Still, it's something.

It doesn't matter to him that his Journal is in his bedroom and John's is sitting out. It's John's he grabs and a pen nearby that he writes with, unaware of what was broadcast over the journals the previous day.]

I am aware that damage to the wings is ill-advised. However, I am curious: Seeing the distinct disadvantage that they pose, has anyone attempted to surgically remove them? Not ripping or merely cutting-- a proper medical procedure. An amputation. Has it been attempted? If it has, to what end?
SH

[After he's written out all of that, he starts on another project. To some, it may just be evidence of extreme boredom. Others... Well. Others might recognise it.]

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[She might not be a medical doctor, but she knows enough to know that is very unusual for something considered a "minor" injury.]

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[Within the hour, as promised, comes a knock at Sherlock's front door. Without waiting for an answer, Brennan pushes it open. Her closed umbrella is carefully placed against the wall as not to track water inside the rest of the apartment.

Her white trench coat stays fastened as she walks further inside.]

Mister Holmes? It's Doctor Temperance Brennan.

[Sherlock has managed to be up enough to brew a pot of tea and fetch milk and sugar.

After that, he retired back to the couch.]

Doctor Brennan. [A sharp, quick look over her. Interesting.] You'll have to excuse my state of dress-- my flatmate is out looking for proper clothing.

[He also gets a look over as she removes her coat and drapes it over her arms. The clothing underneath is simple but fashionable and professional: dark blue jeans with black knee high boots and a fitted purple blouse accompanied by Eastern looking necklace and earrings.

Very much like something she would wear to the lab on a normal basis.]

For whatever reason, our captors chose to import some of our own wardrobe to the town stores. Regardless, most of the items in the shops are preferable over the shift I arrived here in.

[A borrowed shirt-- somewhat too short for him but also too broad in the shoulders-- and the New Feather trousers still adorn the too-thin Holmes body.

His wings flick-- a show of interest in this possible new companion-- is all that can be seen; his expression doesn't change.

He sits forward to set the strainer with tea leaves over one of the cups and pours from the kettle. The furniture needs replacing-- too plain for his tastes-- along with the walls.]

Please, have a seat.

It's refreshing to meet someone who does not regard the "Guide," written by a resident, as infallible and all-knowing.

[She takes the seat and picks up the tea cup, nodding her thanks. No milk and no sugar. She doesn't like either in her tea.]

Circumstances change. Furthermore, I have difficulty actually believing most of what I've read in the guide.

[Of course, as soon as something seemed remotely supernatural, she might have started to ignore it.]

The supposed sensitivity of these wings, for one. The temporary nature of death, another.

Unlikely as it seems, I can speak for the sensitivity of the wings. Minor damage to them proved exceptionally painful. More than makes logical sense.

[A bit of milk and a bit of sugar for him.]

I fail to see, though, how death can be so temporary.

To put it simply, it cannot be. At least, not in the sense in which this guide describes it.

[A sip of the tea.]

Would it be possible to see the injury to your wings? I admit, you piqued my curiosity when you mentioned it.

[The wings on his back give a single, uncertain flick at the idea. He submitted easily to an examination of the injuries from John, but...

This woman is intelligent enough, at least, sceptical, and logical. Her remarks in the journal (shown to him by someone else) about how the placement of the wings was impossible gave him encouragement that she could make a decent assessment.

So he nodded and stood, leaving the couch and half-sitting, half-leaning on one of the end tables by the sofa. That way she could get properly behind him to look at the uninjured wing and its mate.

Both flexed slowly, a show of nerves, no matter what his impassive expression said.]

Of course, Doctor Brennan.

Thank you.

[Her own wings give a flutter of anticipation that Brennan ignores. She's been waiting for a chance to be able to examine a pair of wings, her futile attempts at rigging a mirror set up provided little information.

She places her cup back on the table and stands to get a better look. Without an x-ray to utilize, her fingers make for the next best tool.

And, really, she can't help herself. She has to reach out and touch his good wing. It's a light touch, along the humerus and outward towards the ulna.]

[Sherlock's wing quivers at the touch. It flexes under her hand, not as at ease with this as he was with John, but he is willing himself to remain still and silent, to let her examine it.

After all, she has shown enough intelligence to merit being allowed this, and her opinion combined with John's might prove even more comprehensive. His fingers actually flex and contract with the close proximity.

Better her, though, than Adler.

His wings flicked at the thought then settled hard against his back before they relaxed enough to extend again.]

Sorry. No control over them.

[She watches with apt fascination as the wings react. It's unexpected, just how sensitive the nerves in the wings are. Brennan takes a few moments just to watch before gently touching a tip.]

What does it feel like?

Similar to a touch to the palm or wrists, under the jaw. [Sensitive. The sort of touch he half wanted to flinch away from but would not admit to being uncomfortable with.

It was one thing to submit to the touch of a friend who was a doctor, someone who had patched him up numerous times. A stranger whom he only felt he might get along with somewhat was another thing entirely.

Particularly since John was out.] The doctor who found me-- not my friend, another-- felt drastic steps needed to be taken and further grabbed the inured one. I'd liken the sensation to someone twisting an already broken arm.

Yet he did not actually twist any bone within the wing itself?

[It's hard to believe. Very hard. And if it weren't for the utter appearance of rationality this man seemed to present, she would almost consider it a joke.]

I need you to take your shirt off.

Merely took hold near the bottom and pulled.

[If there were any other explanation, Dr. Brennan, he'd have taken that as truth and moved on. But there is only one possibility, and he is loath to admit it.

Sherlock stands fully, removing the shirt carefully, wincing when it hits his wing wrong. Still not used to this. He sinks back down into his half-seated, half-leaned position.]

Part of the reason I want rid of them.

[She nods as he speaks, her attention mainly occupied by the wings. As much as she despises them, they're still fascinating. Perhaps they would be more fascinating if not for the fact she possessed a pair herself. And if just for that, the unwarranted and unapproved alteration to her core skeletal system, she wants them gone.

A slight murmur is all that can be heard as she leans in close enough so that the tips of his feathers tickle her forehead. Her fingers travel up his vertebrae and then move out towards the base of his good wing.]

I do not blame you. These wings are a violation to the very fundamental structure of our selves, like any unnecessary augmentation.

I admit, I would like to know the procedure they utilized. Very much so.

[The wings flickered slightly, quivering at the touch, but he remains perfectly still himself.

The wings are fascinating enough themselves, he can admit that. He doesn't mind the examination; he would subject someone else to the same. ...Perhaps John, after he's feeling better and if things do not remain too uneasy for too long... Surely John would let him have a look, really see what these things were about. Without doing even the slightest bit of harm to the wings. No feathers to examine or anything of that sort. Just to look at the wings themselves.

He nods at her last remark.]

I knew of a place-- Army base-- [that was hardly enough information to find the spot] that was doing genetic experimentation. I thought for a short time, on seeing the wings, that I might be there. Don't like me much, that lot... wouldn't have surprised me. But we're not. At least, not that I can find.

[ The front door to 2-21 opens, giving way to the sounds of rainfall and a flapping of vinyl. John hangs half out of the door, his right arm extending a few bags into the relative warmth (it's still quite damp) of the flat while his left irritably shakes the water free of his umbrella. There's a soft mutter of curses under the former soldier's breath, likely pertaining to the ill weather and the fact he's been walking far too long in it.

In the end, John just leaves the umbrella out in the hall and turns, shutting the door behind him. It's only then that he notices that there's a plus one in the living room behind the gray shape of his groggy flatmate's wings. John pauses and straightens, very likely realizing how he must look with rain still clinging to his hair and darkening the turn ups on his jeans. ]

Hello.

[ Young (pretty) woman, appearing to be playing with Sherlock's wings. Not yanking out his feathers, or maybe she was about to before John came in?

The doctor smiles at the visitor on reflex, though his eyes soon shift to Sherlock with what the detective may recognize as expectance (if he's looking at all). Because there are two teacups in John's periphery. What the hell is going on? ]

[She's too caught up in both her investigation and the conversation to notice John at first. Her fingers run up the base of the wings and back down to Sherlock's back as she visualizes the adult male skeleton in her head.]

I admit, that is not something we've ever encountered. Though I have seen my share of grizzly situations. Your assumption would not be too far off, though I do not think this is necessarily the result of genetic experimentation.

I - [And it's at that point when John's greeting finally penetrates her thoughts. She glances up, getting a face full of Sherlock's wings in the process.] Hello?

Genetic experimentation, at least in the short amount of time it's possible for it to have taken, wouldn't account for mobility or sensitivity, I wouldn't think.

[This sort of biology isn't really his field. His knowledge is a smattering of things he's learned for and from cases, not formal education. (Chemistry, there's no question, but biology is a different story.) That's why he has a doctor for a colleague and usually has his mobile. A world of information at his fingertips. Without it...

Well. He isn't happy, to say the least.

He half ignores the sounds outside the door, even when the door opens, and his features give no notice to the newcomer's voice. His wings, though, extend a bit, raising. Like a dog's ears perking at the sound of its master. But any happiness or relief or... anything seems contained to just the wings. Which he is determined to ignore.

His tone is perfectly even:] Doctor Brennan, Doctor John Watson, my associate.

John, Doctor Temperance Brennan. One of the few around here who seems actually sensible.

[ Genetic experimentation naturally sends John to thinking about Baskerville, the glowing rabbits and the terrible secret of hounds. Someone else to bounce theories off - of course she is.

What he hears of her sounds a bit familiar, but the real recognition lights John's eyes when Sherlock introduces them (indulgence of formalities? good sign). ]

We've spoken before, actually. The forensic anthropologist.

[ John makes his way across the room, coming up next to Sherlock on the couch. He deposits three slightly damp, paper bags in Sherlock's lap, his eyes remaining on Brennan the whole time as if he were simply setting them on the sofa itself. The bags vary in diameter, but the tops on all of them are twisted shut. Probably made it easier to carry them one-handed, but perhaps Sherlock will use it to his advantage to make deductions before he opens them.

Once they're down, John extends his hand. ]

Good to finally meet you in person.

[Despite her overall dislike of the wings, now that she's actually found a pair to examine, Brennan finds herself fascinated. She's almost reluctant to step away, not yet wanting to end her inspection. Sometimes, cultural norms are nothing but interferences. If not for the conversation they had some nights ago, she might not have even bothered.

But the conversation had left her with a decent enough opinion of the doctor and so she walks around the couch to grip his hand in a firm handshake.]

Likewise. [And there's a grin that accompanies that comment.] I was not aware you were Mr. Holmes' associate, Doctor.

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notquiteheartless - 2012-04-06 01:52 (UTC) - Expand

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