[His response to the touch is, given his reputation, potentially less unfavourable than one would expect. Sherlock Holmes, in the literature, is a precise, proud, aloof man, preferring to be master of his surroundings, and is decidedly unsociable -- he's not the sort of man one imagines accepting casual touch with anything besides grudging tolerance.
And yet, the hand on his shoulder is met with - well. A subtle sort of slump -- a shift in posture where tension loosens, acceptance rather than resignation. His head does not hang, not properly, but something in its changed angle suggests it.
(Military doctor, vain but competent, well-meaning and passionate in her work enough to distribute smoke-masks and see to her neighbours' minor medical needs on her off-duty time, if necessary. Strange allusions to hounds and Baskervilles or not, this nurse has earned the beginnings of trust, rather than suspicion -- enough, at least, for Sherlock not to pull away.)
He accepts the guidance toward the house.]
Forgive me. I--I did not catch your name.
[And he doesn't see it sewn or printed anywhere obvious.]
no subject
And yet, the hand on his shoulder is met with - well. A subtle sort of slump -- a shift in posture where tension loosens, acceptance rather than resignation. His head does not hang, not properly, but something in its changed angle suggests it.
(Military doctor, vain but competent, well-meaning and passionate in her work enough to distribute smoke-masks and see to her neighbours' minor medical needs on her off-duty time, if necessary. Strange allusions to hounds and Baskervilles or not, this nurse has earned the beginnings of trust, rather than suspicion -- enough, at least, for Sherlock not to pull away.)
He accepts the guidance toward the house.]
Forgive me. I--I did not catch your name.
[And he doesn't see it sewn or printed anywhere obvious.]