if_inconvenient | (no subject)

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(no subject)

So. Alec Carrow.

Sherlock is aware that social boundaries apply to this situation, and that he is currently breaking them all. He doesn't much care. He is wholly capable of discretion, but he is not at all capable of remaining ignorant in the first place.

Start with finding the obituary. Work from there. How did he die? When?

(Tony doesn't know about the conversation with Alyce. Tony doesn't know about a lot of things. Tony has been spending more time than usual ensconced in his workshop with the door locked, hacking Stark Industries records like he doesn't remember that Jarvis won't keep secrets between the two of them. Sherlock is a little surprised that it seems Tony was on the level about arming him more formidably.)

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This time she doesn't hesitate to believe his sincerity. But she's still shy, and a little awkward, and maybe just a teeny bit scared by this whole thing. She hasn't done much thinking for herself, well, ever, and she never thought she'd have a friend outside the coven.

"So, um, am I keeping you from anything important? Because, you know, this is great, but if you had plans or anything. But hanging out is really nice, too."

Her drink's been finished a while now.

"I did not have plans," Sherlock reassures her. "If I had something to do that was more important than this conversation, I would be doing that."

This sounds callous, and maybe it is a little, but really it's just the way Sherlock's mind works.

It does sound a little callous, and it takes Alyce a moment to parse whether or not it should be worrisome. She decides, since he's still smiling, that it's honesty, instead, and that's refreshing, too.

"Cool."

Belatedly realizing how that probably sounded, Sherlock looks a little relieved that she did not take it amiss.

...Now he's stuck for conversational topics again. But he has a solution this time!

"What else do people talk about? Besides baseball?"

"Well, we got vampires out of the way. And I'm thinking magic isn't a good topic. Gossip isn't the same when school's out. Oh, I know. How about... do you like to watch movies? Or, um, read books?"

She watches a lot more movies than she reads books, but she does read. Sometimes.

"I read some books."

He grins wryly.

"I am sure you can guess which ones."

"Ummm... Romances?"

Oh. She hopes it's okay to tease a little.

Sherlock's grin widens.

"Your deductive skills may need a bit of work, Miss Carrow," he informs her.

Phew, good. Teasing is okay.

"Maybe you should help me with that, Mr. Holmes. Sunnydale High never offered an elective in detective work."

Thoughtfully: "I don't see why I shouldn't."

"Oh."

She blinks. She'd not meant it like that, but...

"I was- I mean- I don't think I'm smart enough. I mean, for real detective kinds of things. I have to work hard for Bs, and last year, I barely scraped by."

This is another reason she's always followed along instead of done her own thing. She's not as smart as the people around her. At least, that's how she's always felt.

"If academic performance is required for detective work, I am quite doomed," he says cheerfully. "The main part of it is learning how to pay attention. Everything else follows."

"Really? I'm good at that. I think."

If it's similar to the kinds of observations that keep you safe growing up in a place like Sunnydale, then she's even better than she thinks. She just needs focus.

"And, um, you do know you can call me Alyce. If you want to."

Maybe he prefers being that formal, but she's not used to that kind of thing.

"Alyce, then," he agrees. "And," as much as he likes hearing the words Mr. Holmes directed his way, "you may call me Sherlock."

He smiles.

"Would you like to learn whatever I can teach you about observation and deduction?"

She nods her head.

"Yes. I would like that, Sherlock."

She might have said yes to any kind of lessons, so long as he was teaching them. If it gives them reasons to see each other, she's all for it.

"Well then."

Sherlock leans back in his seat a little, considering where to start.

"It has seemed to me," he says slowly, "ever since I began discovering these principles for myself, that really most people exhibit an incredible neglect for what their senses can tell them about reality. I am sure you have noticed it yourself—particularly in this town—the way that most of the population refuses to perceive what is in front of them."

"That's because they don't want to. They'd rather believe in bizarre disease outbreaks or wild animal attacks or random falls on barbecue forks than witches or demons or vampires."

That's why the coven has stayed hidden in plain sight for so long. Even she knows that.

He grins. "So you are already a step ahead of the general population, because you know how to see the world as it is. From there, you need only learn to look a little more closely."

Gesturing at the table between them, he continues, "This, for example. It does not seem terribly informative at first glance, I suppose, but there may be one or two points of interest about it. See anything?"

The surface is one of those fake marble patterns, stained with faint rings where previous patrons set down their beverages. The metal rim is dented in a few places.

She observes the table for few moments. To use magic in this world, you have to be sensitive to things. Awareness of your surroundings is part of that.

"It's used a lot. People pick it more than some of the others, like the one by the trash that's clean and new-looking."

She pauses a moment, and then leans over to look under the table. She laughs.

"And it probably used to be in this corner, because it has a rune underneath that an old friend used to carve wherever we went. This is the corner I always pick."

She sits up and then bites her lip. "I guess that's all, though."

"Very nice," he compliments, grinning. "I certainly could not have told you anything about that rune. I would say that the table has not been moved in a while because there is an accumulation of dirt around its feet."

He picks up his drink and sets it down again, then indicates a fresh stain a few inches beyond it. "I would also say that whoever left this behind was here recently, right-handed like myself, and a little taller than I am—or perhaps merely sitting a little closer to the table."

She nods, listening.

"It was a long time ago."

Augusta died in the summer between sophomore and junior year - werewolf attack.

"I wouldn't have thought to look for any of that. How do you know what you need to look for?"

"Practice," Sherlock admits. "A very long time spent looking for details and wondering what they might tell me. But seeing them in the first place is the important part. Once you have the data you can do what you like with it."

"What did you notice when you first saw me?"

She's curious, not fishing for compliments.

"I wasn't trying to be stealthy when I took your picture, by the way."

"Yes, so I have been told."

He casts his mind back to that night.

"I saw your phone before I saw you," he starts. "Then your clothing, then your face. I always look at what a person is wearing first, because it can tell me so much about them. Then the face or hands, something I will recognize if I see them again."

"And what did what I was wearing tell you about me?"

She laughs, because she expects the obvious. "A witch sent to do no good."

She was in a black flowing dress, much like this one, much like the one from the night at The Bronze. What he might have noticed, even with the fleeting glimpse and the shadows, was the how dark the circles under her eyes were. She hadn't slept well the night before, or during the day. And though she smiled and sparkled, she was sad that night, deeply sad.