Mycroft approaches Lyla fully now and sits down beside her, lowering the umbrella from his shoulder and leaning it against the front of the bench. He smoothes his suit and then eases back a bit. All the while, he's taking the opportunity to observe his current companion at much closer quarters.
He'd noticed that Lyla had something weighing down each side of her jacket, but he can see much more clearly now the shapes that the edges press into the fabric, the stress their weight puts on the inner pockets. Three items, two of them identical (approx. 12 oz in right pocket, approx. 2.5 oz in left). Two matching items (each in a different pocket) most likely switch or folding blades. Additional item likely a container of some sort (adding in previous observations leads to flask being a high probability). Array of holes in shirt all formed after purchase; none formed purposefully (one formed last night). Men's shampoo (cheap) used 8-10 hours ago, but no change of clothes—stayed at someone (who is likely male)'s house but didn't plan on doing so. Sweat, glitter, alcohol, cigarettes, marijuana—he reads hours of the inanities of partying all over her—
Something metallic. Familiar. Bad. Interesting. Like Sherlock, something that smells like Sherlock—
Oh. It's blood.
Not very much, just the faintest hint of it below the shampoo and club grunge, but the note sticks out to Mycroft like it's in the wrong key. It's not likely that she has an external wound bad enough to be concerned about—the smell would be stronger—and an internal one would be causing visible pain. Perhaps she was in a fight or in contact with someone else who was injured, and didn't manage to get rid of the smell entirely.
He quickly comes back to what she's saying, not missing a beat.
"I've often heard it said that such areas are, in fact, the most real," Mycroft reflects. "Existential questions of reality aside, it's quantifiably true, in a way. One can see all of a nation's most shameful faults magnified and run rampant in these places. The unpolished truth; the sin no one bothers to either hide or claim. Where you find sentience, you find this."
He looks at her. "If that isn't reality, I don't know what is."
no subject
He'd noticed that Lyla had something weighing down each side of her jacket, but he can see much more clearly now the shapes that the edges press into the fabric, the stress their weight puts on the inner pockets. Three items, two of them identical (approx. 12 oz in right pocket, approx. 2.5 oz in left). Two matching items (each in a different pocket) most likely switch or folding blades. Additional item likely a container of some sort (adding in previous observations leads to flask being a high probability). Array of holes in shirt all formed after purchase; none formed purposefully (one formed last night). Men's shampoo (cheap) used 8-10 hours ago, but no change of clothes—stayed at someone (who is likely male)'s house but didn't plan on doing so. Sweat, glitter, alcohol, cigarettes, marijuana—he reads hours of the inanities of partying all over her—
Something metallic. Familiar. Bad. Interesting. Like Sherlock, something that smells like Sherlock—
Oh. It's blood.
Not very much, just the faintest hint of it below the shampoo and club grunge, but the note sticks out to Mycroft like it's in the wrong key. It's not likely that she has an external wound bad enough to be concerned about—the smell would be stronger—and an internal one would be causing visible pain. Perhaps she was in a fight or in contact with someone else who was injured, and didn't manage to get rid of the smell entirely.
He quickly comes back to what she's saying, not missing a beat.
"I've often heard it said that such areas are, in fact, the most real," Mycroft reflects. "Existential questions of reality aside, it's quantifiably true, in a way. One can see all of a nation's most shameful faults magnified and run rampant in these places. The unpolished truth; the sin no one bothers to either hide or claim. Where you find sentience, you find this."
He looks at her. "If that isn't reality, I don't know what is."