[Well. If there's no specific viral infection in mind, something more likely than medication, that's probably a good thing.
He doesn't take offense to the suggestion. On the contrary, it's a passed test. Sherlock prefers his medical professionals competent and reliable.]
Got it in one, [he says, wearily.] It is a devil I am having the damnedest time shaking off. As for how I know what I know --
[It is almost hard to explain, going back, what specifically tells him what he knows. You might as well ask what makes the face of your best friend different from that of a passerby; he looks, and he knows. But there are clues he can trace.]
Well, when I see a woman with a military bearing and the air of someone accustomed to command, distributing the air-filtering masks most commonly found in the drug-store and carrying a bag of glass bottles I presume to be medicines or solvents, what else am I supposed to think? You're no soldier, nor do you have the wrist indentations and calluses of someone who works at a desk -- you're far too in training to have had a sedentary job recently anyway.
In addition, you wear the wedding ring that I presume was among the possessions in the house you awoke in. Unlikely to be for sentimental reasons, but it is an impressive diamond, and is at odds with the practicality of manner and dress that you otherwise display. I would posit that your ring and the care you have taken with hair are small vanities you are allowing yourself here, since your time in the military would not have made such indulgences easy. Certainly not if you wanted to maintain camaraderie with the lower ranking nurses under your command.
All in all, I see a head nurse accustomed to military protocol and to navigating the chauvinistic attitudes and egoes of male soldiers, now free to be more liberal with her appearance in its absence but attached enough to her profession to continue to practice it, even in her off hours.
[A beat. Half-drugged rambling concluded, he's quiet a moment.]
no subject
He doesn't take offense to the suggestion. On the contrary, it's a passed test. Sherlock prefers his medical professionals competent and reliable.]
Got it in one, [he says, wearily.] It is a devil I am having the damnedest time shaking off. As for how I know what I know --
[It is almost hard to explain, going back, what specifically tells him what he knows. You might as well ask what makes the face of your best friend different from that of a passerby; he looks, and he knows. But there are
clues he can trace.]
Well, when I see a woman with a military bearing and the air of someone accustomed to command, distributing the air-filtering masks most commonly found in the drug-store and carrying a bag of glass bottles I presume to be medicines or solvents, what else am I supposed to think? You're no soldier, nor do you have the wrist indentations and calluses of someone who works at a desk -- you're far too in training to have had a sedentary job recently anyway.
In addition, you wear the wedding ring that I presume was among the possessions in the house you awoke in. Unlikely to be for sentimental reasons, but it is an impressive diamond, and is at odds with the practicality of manner and dress that you otherwise display. I would posit that your ring and the care you have taken with hair are small vanities you are allowing yourself here, since your time in the military would not have made such indulgences easy. Certainly not if you wanted to maintain camaraderie with the lower ranking nurses under your command.
All in all, I see a head nurse accustomed to military protocol and to navigating the chauvinistic attitudes and egoes of male soldiers, now free to be more liberal with her appearance in its absence but attached enough to her profession to continue to practice it, even in her off hours.
[A beat. Half-drugged rambling concluded, he's quiet a moment.]
Or do I miss my guess?