Normalcy is a fine art that Charles has perfected over the past twenty years. Of course, that's not quite the case and, in amongst all the thoughts that pass in and out of his mind, he hears his name and pauses writing mid-word. And then he hears himself being assessed (correctly, for the most part):
...age: 27-30 specifically. North American (East Coast, likely New York state); upper-class British English accent (possibly studied in England for a prolonged period). Doctor, part-time lecturer, economically comfortable (quality mens clothing). One volume xenian genetics, two on later 20th century social movements. CiD scratches (new, but here for a month-and-a-half, two maximum)...
And on it goes. Charles stiffens and turns to look right back at the man observing him through the bookcases with a piercing look before making his own investigation. Although the conclusion that he quickly reaches is this man's mind. It's unlike anything Charles has ever encountered: every minute detail around them is being endlessly processed, formed into hypothetical situations, making plans for the future, creating patterns from events that have gone before, fast, furious, constant. Like a machine --no. That does him a disservice.
Charles leans forward, one elbow on his knee, chin on hand to make himself comfortable before pushing past the mechanics to concentrate on the information, picking out what he deems necessary: new to the city, human, and not to be underestimated, certainly. Calculated. But no immediate threat. The rest speeds on and on--
Until he realises that he's been staring at a stranger for no apparent reason. Ah. He breaks his gaze, before looking back with a slight head-tilt, glancing at the empty chair next to him, then to Mycroft once more. The signal is clear; he's free to join him, should he wish.
no subject
...age: 27-30 specifically. North American (East Coast, likely New York state); upper-class British English accent (possibly studied in England for a prolonged period). Doctor, part-time lecturer, economically comfortable (quality mens clothing). One volume xenian genetics, two on later 20th century social movements. CiD scratches (new, but here for a month-and-a-half, two maximum)...
And on it goes. Charles stiffens and turns to look right back at the man observing him through the bookcases with a piercing look before making his own investigation. Although the conclusion that he quickly reaches is this man's mind. It's unlike anything Charles has ever encountered: every minute detail around them is being endlessly processed, formed into hypothetical situations, making plans for the future, creating patterns from events that have gone before, fast, furious, constant. Like a machine --no. That does him a disservice.
Charles leans forward, one elbow on his knee, chin on hand to make himself comfortable before pushing past the mechanics to concentrate on the information, picking out what he deems necessary: new to the city, human, and not to be underestimated, certainly. Calculated. But no immediate threat. The rest speeds on and on--
Until he realises that he's been staring at a stranger for no apparent reason. Ah. He breaks his gaze, before looking back with a slight head-tilt, glancing at the empty chair next to him, then to Mycroft once more. The signal is clear; he's free to join him, should he wish.