Sherlock Holmes sits on the roof of the school, where he can see everything, take in the smell of the campus - the grass, the way the air tastes, the particular stink of teenagers wearing a combination of either too much cheap cologne or too much perfume. His legs dangle from the edge of the roof - he's positioned on the back of the school, out of the way of prying eyes. His long arms curl about the body of his Stradivarius - one of the things Mrs. Hudson had carefully tucked away in the box of his possessions she'd gathered. She'd said she wanted to rent out the place, but Sherlock knew she was lying - he'd not seen any advertisements anywhere, and many of his belongings were still strewn about. It was like someone had tried to clean and given up halfway through. Dust - he remembers, dust coated the apartment when he walked in, and dust is so very telling.
His fingers press into the case of his violin, and the tall man sets his chin on top of the case, grey eyes focusing down at the school grounds. Wind buffets black curls into chaos, but the man doesn't seem to care much, only shifting to pull his coat more tightly around him to ward off the beginning of the autumn chill. He debates playing. He doesn't want to arouse attention and he certainly doesn't want any of the students coming up to investigate.
The school is fascinating, the people are fascinating - all of them with their unique abilities, watching girls float in and out of view, fireballs, super-speed, heightened reflexes - a whole gamut of intensely bewildering abilities. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes feels as if he is the ordinary one, and all of the people around him are terribly extraordinary.
He shoves that thought aside, boxing it up mentally to deal with it later in a more logical process that will take approximately three seconds to deal with, if he's remotely sleepy. He's not ordinary - he's just not shooting laser beams from his eyes or stepping through walls at a whim. The flutter of his scarf - caught by the wind - trails out behind him, a long, deep blue gash against a bright sky.
It would be a pretty lovely scene, if Sherlock had any mind to consider exactly how he looks - a tall, slender figure, pale as cream, garbed almost wholly in deep shades of black and purple, poised deep in thought on the edge of a building with the wind swirling around him.
He doesn't. He's too lost in his own thoughts to care, and the narrow of his grey eyes speaks volumes out of his silence.
Sherlock Holmes - Sherlock [BBC]
His fingers press into the case of his violin, and the tall man sets his chin on top of the case, grey eyes focusing down at the school grounds. Wind buffets black curls into chaos, but the man doesn't seem to care much, only shifting to pull his coat more tightly around him to ward off the beginning of the autumn chill. He debates playing. He doesn't want to arouse attention and he certainly doesn't want any of the students coming up to investigate.
The school is fascinating, the people are fascinating - all of them with their unique abilities, watching girls float in and out of view, fireballs, super-speed, heightened reflexes - a whole gamut of intensely bewildering abilities. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes feels as if he is the ordinary one, and all of the people around him are terribly extraordinary.
He shoves that thought aside, boxing it up mentally to deal with it later in a more logical process that will take approximately three seconds to deal with, if he's remotely sleepy. He's not ordinary - he's just not shooting laser beams from his eyes or stepping through walls at a whim. The flutter of his scarf - caught by the wind - trails out behind him, a long, deep blue gash against a bright sky.
It would be a pretty lovely scene, if Sherlock had any mind to consider exactly how he looks - a tall, slender figure, pale as cream, garbed almost wholly in deep shades of black and purple, poised deep in thought on the edge of a building with the wind swirling around him.
He doesn't. He's too lost in his own thoughts to care, and the narrow of his grey eyes speaks volumes out of his silence.