if_inconvenient | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(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.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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.

The peril of asking Sherlock Holmes questions is that he usually answers them.

"Yes, your fashion choices do exhibit a certain theme," he agrees with a faint smile. "And your dresses are well enough cared for; I could not see any obvious damage. The other main point of interest was that it seemed you had not been sleeping well."

She looks up, surprised. "You do notice the details."

She hides a lot, she thinks. Trixi can pick up emotions. She knows when people are lying, and she knows when they have magical gifts. It's hard hiding much from her, but Alyce has had a lot of practice. She's cheerful and pleasant and nothing bothers her.

Except when they do.

"I don't hide what I am. With the clothes, I mean. I want to be a witch. I want everyone to know."

"Yes," he agrees, "I do."

He tilts his head thoughtfully to one side. "Why?"

(If you were paying attention, you might think that question implied he has something to hide.)

(She is paying attention, but she's not on his wavelength quite yet. Give her a little time to get to know him.)

"Because it's amazing. I can do things other people can't - things they can't even dream about. I can call on the elements and the lower powers and make them do what I say, because I have that power. I can make things happen, and I can stay safe, and I can hurt those who would hurt me."

"I can see how that would be something to be proud of."

In a sense, he supposes—

"A little like me and my deductions, in fact, although in my case the effects are much more humble."

"You have to be proud of your talents. What else do you investigate? Aside from evil teenagers who send demons after you."

"Very little," Sherlock admits. "Sunnydale can be astonishingly dull. That demon assassin was the most exciting thing that has happened to me all year."

Which means he probably wasn't there for the demon prom.

"Then you must have missed prom," she says, her eyebrows raised high.

Exactly!

"I did, yes. And by the time I could inspect the area, most of the evidence had been obliterated by the demon assault itself and at least two subsequent coverup efforts."

"That was insane. I'm glad you missed it. I left early, and I missed all the-"

She was going to say fun.

She stops just in time.

"-danger. Oh, that wasn't our fault. We just showed up to prom."

"All the danger," he repeats, quirking a smile. "Indeed. Yes, I'm aware you and your fellow ducklings were not responsible."

Sherlock pats the table fondly.

"I believe we have learned all we can from this noble item of furniture. Shall we go looking for other things to examine?"

She snickers. Ducklings will never not be funny.

"Yeah. Let's do. Maybe we can find a mystery to solve."

She stands up, smoothing her skirts out.

"After you, Mr. Holmes."

He stands, too, and flashes her a smile as he turns towards the door.

"It is an honour to lead you, Miss Carrow."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only