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Who: Nick and Sherlock
Where: Walking down from Record Low
When: January 27th, 3:23pm
What: Meeting eccentrics
Rating: Nick=dirty mouth
Status: Open

Comments

[observededuce]

"It might help if you actually let it play the music before telling it to move on to the next file." The deep, dry voice that cut through the chill emanated from a man who didn't seem to be paying attention at all. Rather, the man in the long coat, one Sherlock Holmes, was stood on the pavement texting intently, his eyes fixed on his mobile.

The charges would be exorbitant, but Mycroft had agreed to foot the bill in exchanged for the occasional missive to him--he always did worry so--and so Sherlock gave the cost of the transatlantic telecommunications not a second thought.

And although it appeared as though the same lack of care applied to the fellow with the iPod Shuffle, in fact Sherlock had already made a number of observations about him.

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Nick startled at the man's deep voice and, irate, stopped, "Who the fuck asked y--" the music suddenly came blasting into his ear. He'd evidently turned up the volume somehow. He yelped at the intensity.

"Mother fucker!" he yelled and ripped the cord of his earbuds from the device. "How the...fuck do you turn this damn thing down!" He sniffed, rubbing his sleeve under his nose distractedly.

[observededuce]

Sherlock continued tapping on his mobile. It was a trick he'd learned from Mycroft's assistant. Trust his brother to have someone Sherlock could actually learn something from. It seemed to have the right effect on people, though. Kept them under control.

He allowed himself a bored sigh. "The minus button, I would imagine."

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"Oh..." Nick replied with a grimace. He poked the button a few times and tentatively plugged the buds back in. From here he could adjust the sound as needed.

Ah, finally music. He thumped his back on the wall next to the taller guy and slid down closing his eyes and savoring the clear tunes. Part of him, though, would forever miss the grainy record or tinny cassette tape. But the crystal clear tones of one of his favorite bands were comforting, nonetheless.

"You're sort of a douche," Nick said with his eyes still closed. "Thanks for--" he held the shuffle up sure that the man would see it if his former example of exemplary peripheral vision was any clue.

Apparently the fact that the man was an asshole was no reason not to be grateful for his assistance was Nick's way of seeing.

[observededuce]

Sherlock shrugged, a gesture just barely visible through his thick winter accessories. He'd been called worse, for attributes less voluntary. "You're sort of making life more difficult for yourself than it has to be. You're welcome."

He looked up for a moment, confirming details, forming new hypotheses.

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Nick opened his eyes and looked up at him, glaring.

"And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" A beat. "Nick."

Nick was finding it hard to take too much offense to the matter-of-fact comments by the stranger. His observations weren't laced with venom. The way they were phrased seemed familiar, though the 30 year old was sure he had never met anyone like the man before.

Just the same, he found himself burning with emotion at the implication made. Subconscious self sabotage wasn't Nick's style. But that didn't mean he didn't do it regularly. Hence, subconscious.

[observededuce]

"Your clothes are vintage, not retro, but they look almost new. Thirty years old by the style but as new as if they had been purchased no more than a year ago. You've fallen forward in time or you've kept your clothes pristine for three decades. Either way you're clinging to the past, at the expense of current comfort. You've purchased a modern device, but haven't bothered to learn how to use it. You want to update yourself, but you've sabotaged your own attempt before it's had a chance to succeed. You're clinging to the past because you don't believe you can move into the future." The clothes didn't look warm enough, either, but that might have been personal choice. It was an inconclusive piece of evidence, and Sherlock tucked it away in a separate file. He paused, weighing his final observation. "And if you're ill, you should visit the doctor. There's no point being uncomfortable just to be stoic."

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As the taller man continued to talk Nick slowly opened his eyes again to stare at the man incredulously. When he finished his deducing Nick patiently took the ear bud out of his right ear and grimaced

[observededuce]

Boring. There was a reason Sherlock didn't make a habit of explaining his deductions. People preferred to think they were trivial after the fact, while taking offense at the same time. Mockery should have been a poor defense, but he'd been its target since prep school, and preferred to avoid it where he could.

As it was, Sherlock allowed it to wash over him because he had little choice in the matter. He'd let his guard down. An error. "Consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes*. I think we're done here."

He started to walk away, but something like conscience in the form of an imagined, familiar voice at his shoulder forced him to offer a final observation. "It's more than just a cold, though. You should have it looked at. Could save your life."

*Sherlock had probably heard it before...so long as there's no canon-puncturing.

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Whatever, Nick thought as he rolled his eyes and replaced the earbud. To his knowledge they'd never started so being done was good enough for him.

As for the coincidence in Sherlock's name also being an 80's idiom, it was just that. Surely there was more than one Sherlock in the world. The name was just there for alliteration anyway, right? Could have been 'No shit, Sherman' for all it was worth. And if Nick had learned anything about English literature in school Aternatopia, Canada had wiped it away now. He wouldn't know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from Adam, now. There was certainly no canon-puncturing going on.

And then Sherlock left Nick with that last tidbit of information. Nick looked at him hard. He swallowed, obviously anxious, his mouth ajar. Did he look that bad, he wondered.

"What else?" he asked sternly, wondering how far this guy would be able to go.

[observededuce]

Sherlock stopped, discomfited. He regarded Nick for a long moment, longer than he had spared to look at him before.

"I'm not a doctor," he said at last, uncharacteristically reticent.

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Nick laughed at that.

"No-no-no-no," he said, edging his way up the wall to stand facing him. "You can't pull that shit on me now, buddy. Hey, can of worms opened. C'mon, Sherlock, whaddya see, huh? What the fuck do you see? Huh?"

His brow was furrowed, daring him to answer.

"Complete what you started. I don't know how you do it, but I know you can complete what you started. So what else?" Nick asked, circling him now, his arms opened, hands up in question.

[observededuce]

It wasn't that Sherlock hadn't understood the social niceties before; it was only that John had taught him to see the value in them--to an extent. Right now, they called for a certain amount of tact and care, but Nick wasn't asking for that, and it wasn't what he wanted

[new_wave_rocker]

As Sherlock talked Nick put his hands on top of his head and closed his eyes. He laced his fingers into his hair and sighed listening his emotional and physical state calmly said to him as if reading it from a text book. He took a few steps, allowing his self imposed blindness to guide him in an aimless pace. He nodded at every point Sherlock made, his eyebrows up at HIV

[observededuce]

"No," Sherlock admitted, his voice flat. Usually he used it to demonstrate how superior and fantastic his brain was, but sometimes--oftentimes--he wished he could. Sometimes it was painful, or caused pain, to himself or others. Sometimes the vivid saturation of detail was so bright, so high in contrast, that it washed itself out in a white whine, too many channels all at once turning sound into so much noise.

"But I know," he added, "about dying."

About trying to shut off the noise. About needles and the things carried in them. And about seeing relief take someone else and wishing to have it as well.

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"That sucks," Nick replied sympathetically. He could only imagine what it felt like to be able to do what the man just did whether he had some psychic ability or if he was just that fucking smart. Someone wasn't that fantastical without some major drawbacks. Flash in a pan.

"Yeah?" Nick said, eyebrows up, still considering the way he was facing. He didn't ask about it. He nodded, accepting it. Everyone had their vices.

Nick was familiar with needles, drops, and smoking but not to the extent of taking his own life. His true drug of choice was sex. He had thought it was a pretty tame obsession. No danger of overdose. Karma always found a way though, he supposed.

"Things are about to get a lot harder," he murmured knowing that if he walked the way he was faced he would make it to a bus stop. The bus would take him to a hospital and he'd make an appointment to see a doctor and they'd tell him if he'd waited too long. If he was going to live.