There is a young woman at the bar (she was there before) and she might be dressed the same (dark hair thick and spilling over her shoulder, gold bangles at her wrists and around a slender ankle), but then again, she might not (red tunic cinched at the waist, darker red-purple-black skirt, nails painted wine-purple).
"Now that suits you much better," she says, and she should have a cherry or an apple or even ice-cream, but what she has is a dish from Morocco with real bread and real couscous and real spices and hell with being tempting, because she's damn well starving.
(she eats with her hands, using three fingers as is the proper Islamic way)
Rache won't mind someone flopping onto the couch next to him, right?
"Yo, Holmes." Tony sprawls, not touching Rache but far enough into his personal space to indicate familiarity, and nods at the stack of books. "ADD much today?"
Someone walks in the door and glances idly around the room.
He sees the man on the couch.
He stops.
He stares.
(he is dressed largely in the clothing of the twentieth century, with a few pieces from more or less the nineteenth-that pocket-watch is an antique, the shirt a reconstruction; he plays the violin and is proficient in several varieties of hand-to-hand combat; he moves like Sherlock Holmes.)
First things first. More data. He crosses over to the area by the fireplace, keeping his eyes on (the man he assumes to be) Sherlock fucking Holmes the entire time.
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The tricky part is getting the handwriting to look neat but not too neat.
His suit is of good quality, but worn around the edges.
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Anyone taking that much care with their handwriting, for example, is certainly worth watching.
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"Now that suits you much better," she says, and she should have a cherry or an apple or even ice-cream, but what she has is a dish from Morocco with real bread and real couscous and real spices and hell with being tempting, because she's damn well starving.
(she eats with her hands, using three fingers as is the proper Islamic way)
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"Does it now," he says at last.
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"What displeased you so about the other one?"
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Not like I've been stalking that Strat/Rache thread or anything.
*puts that story on list of Things To Read*]
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Just like I'm not giddy that you're stalking it. :D
At some point after you've read it, I might have to beg an Irene thread. *shifty eyes*]
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In the meantime, have a barely-legal hooker who knows noshitgreg. :D]
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"Yo, Holmes." Tony sprawls, not touching Rache but far enough into his personal space to indicate familiarity, and nods at the stack of books. "ADD much today?"
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"No more so than usual."
He grins. "And how are you this evening?"
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He tilts his head, mimicking Tony's gesture. "Better now that I have company."
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He sees the man on the couch.
He stops.
He stares.
(he is dressed largely in the clothing of the twentieth century, with a few pieces from more or less the nineteenth-that pocket-watch is an antique, the shirt a reconstruction; he plays the violin and is proficient in several varieties of hand-to-hand combat; he moves like Sherlock Holmes.)
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When he sees the young man, he laughs.
"How remarkable."
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Beat.
"I mean-"
He doesn't know what he means, to be honest.
First things first. More data. He crosses over to the area by the fireplace, keeping his eyes on (the man he assumes to be) Sherlock fucking Holmes the entire time.
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"And a good evening to you," he says when Sherlock is closer.
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