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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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

My inquiries have also met with similar responses of disapproval. I can understand your reluctance to reveal your acquaintance's name.

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[After all the rumors she's heard about the wings, his response definitely catches her attention.]

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[She is a doctor and not John (and to whom he will not submit if she tries to suggest further remedies), so he passes on the information.]

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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?

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