"Sherlock Holmes," says Sherlock in return--fairly indifferent to 'Sherlock,' or 'Holmes' or 'Mr Holmes' or whatever else people choose to call him. He glances at the wall he's been trying to deface; his eyes traverse the long shine of reflected light in its surface.
His frames of reference are all gone. Once again. He's acquired a lifetime's worth of knowledge that applies to the 'present-day' UK--building materials, architectural styles, age, weathering, structural weaknesses and signs of remodeling--and absolutely none of it avails him faced with something like this. He cannot make bricks without clay, it's true; but he doesn't even have clay now, he has mud. Endless, shapeless mud. Data with no points of comparison, no taxonomy, nothing to start from.
Of course, he has to start somewhere anyway. So that's what he's doing.
His stomach makes a disquieted noise. Earthly needs always present themselves. "You have 'magical' abilities," he says precisely: not quite putting that in air quotes, but not quite not, either. "I suppose you've already tried leaving that way?"
no subject
His frames of reference are all gone. Once again. He's acquired a lifetime's worth of knowledge that applies to the 'present-day' UK--building materials, architectural styles, age, weathering, structural weaknesses and signs of remodeling--and absolutely none of it avails him faced with something like this. He cannot make bricks without clay, it's true; but he doesn't even have clay now, he has mud. Endless, shapeless mud. Data with no points of comparison, no taxonomy, nothing to start from.
Of course, he has to start somewhere anyway. So that's what he's doing.
His stomach makes a disquieted noise. Earthly needs always present themselves. "You have 'magical' abilities," he says precisely: not quite putting that in air quotes, but not quite not, either. "I suppose you've already tried leaving that way?"