(Untitled)

[new_wave_rocker]

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.

[new_wave_rocker]

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."

[new_wave_rocker]

"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.