"No," said Sherlock Holmes, far too carelessly. "Hence the finding."
***
Sherlock had not been not feeling so careless two hours ago. This was a recent development, and about ninety percent affect. Sherlock was, in fact, terrified and perplexed to find himself transplanted into a completely foreign, genteel little science-fictional prison for the second time in his life; it happening twice did not make the experience more reassuring for him. On the contrary, he found that he'd been growing used to his previous accommodations--and company--and that having them so abruptly ripped away and replaced by a soothing and not-too-complex AI did not do much for his short-term emotional health. He spent a good thirty minutes interrogating Ship's Services all the same, before heading out gingerly into the 'world'--if you could call it that. Whatever you could call it.
(He also spent a good five minutes prodding at his implant, but he, fortunately, did not have a friend.)
A few conversations with 'locals' later, he'd managed to ascertain a small amount of explicit and implicit information: that most of the people here were from Earth, of various times and places. That most of them arrived alone. That no one knew who was piloting the ship, if indeed that was what it was. That no one knew what alien design went into it--though Sherlock would have placed bets on Tate Modern, or the MOMA. That there was a breathable atmosphere. That there was no immediate danger, that they were 'safe', that necessities could be gotten easily, that there were doctors and farmers and--
--and nobody that Sherlock knew.
Well, you could wait, said a kind old lady. They might turn up.
And, with painful fright in his chest and without declaring his intention to anyone else, that was just what he did.
***
"What is his name?" Sherlock rejoined. He tucked the violin and bow under one arm, then swung his other leg off the fountain's edge and stood, to not-inconsiderable height. "How can you be so certain that he's here, if you haven't encountered him?"
He looked like he had more questions, but he was restraining them, at some great and impatient effort; before Obi-Wan could answer him he was already fishing out his comm again and typing something into it, though he eyed Obi-Wan as he did, so at least it stood a chance of being relevant. His interest in the lightsaber seemed to have subsided, at least, for now.
no subject
Sherlock had not been not feeling so careless two hours ago. This was a recent development, and about ninety percent affect. Sherlock was, in fact, terrified and perplexed to find himself transplanted into a completely foreign, genteel little science-fictional prison for the second time in his life; it happening twice did not make the experience more reassuring for him. On the contrary, he found that he'd been growing used to his previous accommodations--and company--and that having them so abruptly ripped away and replaced by a soothing and not-too-complex AI did not do much for his short-term emotional health. He spent a good thirty minutes interrogating Ship's Services all the same, before heading out gingerly into the 'world'--if you could call it that. Whatever you could call it.
(He also spent a good five minutes prodding at his implant, but he, fortunately, did not have a friend.)
A few conversations with 'locals' later, he'd managed to ascertain a small amount of explicit and implicit information: that most of the people here were from Earth, of various times and places. That most of them arrived alone. That no one knew who was piloting the ship, if indeed that was what it was. That no one knew what alien design went into it--though Sherlock would have placed bets on Tate Modern, or the MOMA. That there was a breathable atmosphere. That there was no immediate danger, that they were 'safe', that necessities could be gotten easily, that there were doctors and farmers and--
--and nobody that Sherlock knew.
Well, you could wait, said a kind old lady. They might turn up.
And, with painful fright in his chest and without declaring his intention to anyone else, that was just what he did.
"What is his name?" Sherlock rejoined. He tucked the violin and bow under one arm, then swung his other leg off the fountain's edge and stood, to not-inconsiderable height. "How can you be so certain that he's here, if you haven't encountered him?"
He looked like he had more questions, but he was restraining them, at some great and impatient effort; before Obi-Wan could answer him he was already fishing out his comm again and typing something into it, though he eyed Obi-Wan as he did, so at least it stood a chance of being relevant. His interest in the lightsaber seemed to have subsided, at least, for now.