What time is it? [Open]

[nevercomplain]

Who: Dr. Watson and anyone else!
When: Erm, let's say Friday, the 16th.
Where: Center of Anatole
Format: Paragraph
What: John tries to figure out the rest of the city while trying to locate Holmes. He might also be looking for the clinic for employment.
Warnings: None yet!

Comments

[nevercomplain]

By the time Watson had reached the bookstore and gave the description of his friend to the man at the counter, Holmes was gone. He sighed out of frustration, leaning his forehead on his index finger and thumb as he bent over the counter. Not wanting to waste time, he stood straight. "Thank you," he told the salesman and left the bookstore. Watson left once more and braced himself to once again travel through the crowds to find Holmes.

He was growing frustrated by the minute. A part of him wanted to give up his search and just return to his flat, but what then? What if Holmes left the bookstore not expecting to come back? Watson also didn't know when the man would return, much like he did back when they lived together on Baker Street.

As Watson was still on the fence about what to do, he saw a thin group of people gathering not too far off. He furrowed his brow, curious. "Excuse me madam," Watson gently asked a woman on the edge of the group. "What's going on?" The woman looked at him and shrugged. "Some street performer I'm gatherin' or summat."

Well, at least a taste of him, Watson guessed.

[neverstagnate]

Holmes tuned the Strad, seemingly oblivious to the people collecting around him, but in truth he was already sizing up a good number of them. With his face dirtied and his clothes akin to theirs, they weren't shooting him the baleful looks he'd received upon his initial arrival, but they were still certainly suspicious. None of them had currency at the ready, but seemed only intent on surveying what he was going to do. Holmes wondered if instruments like his existed in Anatole.

Without any warning, Holmes launched into Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E Minor, but merely the lead violin of the first movement. As his fingers danced along the neck, he was still observing every movement and detail of those around him. A rather round woman off to the side was constantly shifting her weight away from one foot to another; she had a club foot made obvious by the varying length of her two legs and the boot on one foot rather than both. Another man was leering at him particularly hard, one hand in his pocket. The thin material allowed Holmes to deduce that his fingers were wrapped around the hilt of a knife. What danger he expected from a street performer was only up to speculation. He didn't register the nervousness of a mugger.

All this was thought within a few bars of music, when Holmes thought he spied a familiar top hat among the crowd. He continued to play, undaunted.

[nevercomplain]

Watson tried to see over the heads of the crowd, but it was a bit difficult. He removed his top hat just as the street performer - granted if that's whom they were - began his or her repertoire. He recognized the song and was a little intrigued. Watson was far from an expert on Anatole, but he was perturbed by this mix of Victorian England and what seemed to be the future, based on the technology he had seen.

He kindly made his way through the crowds, pardoning himself if he bumped into a lady or nodding to a fellow gentleman. Watson finally broke through the crowd to the front, only to pause when he saw whom it was. He looked at Holmes, resting on his cane, a small smile on his face.

[neverstagnate]

Beneath his music, Holmes could hear the familiar three-legged gait of Watson, if not a bit more sprightly than usual. He turned a bit on his heel to face the steps, and seeing his old companion there, Holmes shot him a brief, tight smile before whirling back into position to finish the piece. The applause was sporadic, but Holmes didn't mind, taking off his hat, and circling the natives, who tossed in an ivory or two. As he passed Watson, he muttered in the doctor's ear.

"Thank goodness you've come, Watson. I was afraid I'd be forced to reach into my folk ditties."

He continued until the spectators dwindled. Holmes looked into his hat, scrutinizing the currency he'd collected. Satisfied, he joined Watson again.

"I suppose my usual profession will have a higher yield amongst these people." A smirk fluttered at the corners of his mouth, trying not to become a complete smile. "I see Anatole has treated you a bit better." Watson looked like he'd had a shave and some sleep since they'd arrived, unlike Holmes.

[nevercomplain]

Once Holmes was done his piece, Watson straightened his stance again. He snorted at Holmes's comment before waiting until they were alone--if only somewhat--to begin speaking once more. He looked down at his friend's hat as well, looking up at him when he mentioned being treated a bit better amongst the Scorched. "I guess you could say that," Watson replied. "Though I'm not sure if sleep, food, and shelter were worth being swindled out of so many ivories."

He gave Holmes a look. "Though it looks like you'll be needing those." Not that his friend minded his appearance, of that he was sure.

[neverstagnate]

Ah, tried and true Watson. The downsides to these admirable traits finally made themselves known to him, and Holmes' lip twitched upwards momentarily in what seemed to be a sympathetic manner.

"Were you now?" Holmes offered his hat to Watson. "Take half, old boy. If I have your word that it won't be lost to dice." He took a glance at himself. He actually was a bit dirtier than he liked, and his stomach had been crying out for several hours. Most important to Holmes, however, was the fact that he was becoming too tired to think clearly. That was always a caution.

"Perhaps, in small doses."

[nevercomplain]

Watson gave Holmes another look, pursing his lips, when he asked his question. "Please, it was all over the Forge..." he began, but his voice drifted off when his friend then offered half of his ivories. He was a bit tempted, but shook his head. "No, you keep them," he said. "I'll be getting a job at the clinic on top of house calls." Hopefully, but Watson was ever the optimist.

"Let's get you washed up and something in your stomach at least," he then said. "Gladstone will be happy to see you, I'm sure."

[neverstagnate]

Such business was never a promise, but Holmes shrugged and placed the money in the lining of his jacket-- never the pockets. His head turned in the direction of the community block, and picking up the Strad with a bit of flourish, headed off with his typically brisk pace.

"Come then, Watson. I've sampled enough of the street delicacies for now. And Gladstone will be happy to see anyone with something to put in his belly."

[nevercomplain]

Watson took off after Holmes, catching up with him in three solid steps. For once, he managed to keep up with the detective without the sound of his cane echoing after them. He scoffed when Holmes brought up his experiments on Gladstone. "Don't think you can pick up your experiments where you left off," he said. "Besides, we don't know what kinds of...chemicals they use here. They might be stronger, fatal."

Anything to prevent him from putting Gladstone through that again.

[neverstagnate]

Needless to say, Holmes noticed. He had long before when the cane didn't fall so heavily on the ground before, but now Watson was jogging along without the aid of it.

"How is the leg then, old boy?" he asked, though he sounded more like he was insinuating something than showing concern. He stopped abruptly and faced Watson.

"But chemicals? You jump to conclusions. First we'll give him the local food that we haven't eaten to make sure it's fit for consumption." Holmes held back a grin.