It is not the smell of the fresh-laundered bedsheets that brings Sherlock Holmes to the passageway, but rather the obstinate intent to plot an accurate map, starting with the cluster of buildings, if you can call them that. The sheets are an afterthought; the sheets are dismissed as a malfunctioning dispenser, from Sherlock's brief experience so far with dispensers. They get an unnerved start out of him, to be sure, but no hope: just recognition and a mote of curiosity. They are not enough to turn him off his steady and meandering course.
But eventually, his course does take him there, and the mote is satisfied. He too passes each column with an interested frown, crouching down in front of one to study the material, the way that it glisters from one angle to another.
As he wanders along, the scent changes--to something completely unfamiliar. Not only something Sherlock doesn't recognize, but of which he can't catalog the attributes; he has no idea whether what he's smelling is sweet, or musky, or astringent. It can't be placed. It must be some chemical having an olfactory effect. Having come to this reasonable enough conclusion, Sherlock covers his nose and mouth experimentally with his hand and then lets it drop. Well, he doesn't seem to be being gassed--no more than with the warm fabric and the detergent--it's just almost as if, almost like...
His feet take him around a corner and he finds a man staring at a wall. The man is middle-aged and well-groomed, carrying a blanket of some sort, though not in quite as good of physical health--he has a canine companion with the present manner and reactions of a concerned service dog. This is probably because his master is staring at the wall. Sherlock's eyes flick to the man for signs of seizure or post-traumatic flashback, and then to the wall--
The map Sherlock is making is pointless, he realizes; all his attempts to create a new frame of reference for himself are pointless. His world is gone. It didn't have much of a place for him to begin with, maybe, but it's certainly gone now, and with it his life's work. The stubborn effort to find a signal in the noise is just that--an effort, busywork. Human endeavor is as chaotic and meaningless--and evil--here as everywhere, and anything Sherlock does will make no more of a dent in it than it ever has.
His eyes come unfocused. It doesn't immediately occur to him to look away, because it doesn't immediately occur to him that anything could affect his cognition this deeply.
Then the dog whines, and something in the back of Sherlock's now deeply depressed mind reminds him: yes, but this man might be having a seizure. He glances over at the stranger--and blinks, as the depression ebbs. He looks back at the wall. He looks back at the man. It's having a very choppy effect on his serotonin levels.
no subject
But eventually, his course does take him there, and the mote is satisfied. He too passes each column with an interested frown, crouching down in front of one to study the material, the way that it glisters from one angle to another.
As he wanders along, the scent changes--to something completely unfamiliar. Not only something Sherlock doesn't recognize, but of which he can't catalog the attributes; he has no idea whether what he's smelling is sweet, or musky, or astringent. It can't be placed. It must be some chemical having an olfactory effect. Having come to this reasonable enough conclusion, Sherlock covers his nose and mouth experimentally with his hand and then lets it drop. Well, he doesn't seem to be being gassed--no more than with the warm fabric and the detergent--it's just almost as if, almost like...
His feet take him around a corner and he finds a man staring at a wall. The man is middle-aged and well-groomed, carrying a blanket of some sort, though not in quite as good of physical health--he has a canine companion with the present manner and reactions of a concerned service dog. This is probably because his master is staring at the wall. Sherlock's eyes flick to the man for signs of seizure or post-traumatic flashback, and then to the wall--
The map Sherlock is making is pointless, he realizes; all his attempts to create a new frame of reference for himself are pointless. His world is gone. It didn't have much of a place for him to begin with, maybe, but it's certainly gone now, and with it his life's work. The stubborn effort to find a signal in the noise is just that--an effort, busywork. Human endeavor is as chaotic and meaningless--and evil--here as everywhere, and anything Sherlock does will make no more of a dent in it than it ever has.
His eyes come unfocused. It doesn't immediately occur to him to look away, because it doesn't immediately occur to him that anything could affect his cognition this deeply.
Then the dog whines, and something in the back of Sherlock's now deeply depressed mind reminds him: yes, but this man might be having a seizure. He glances over at the stranger--and blinks, as the depression ebbs. He looks back at the wall. He looks back at the man. It's having a very choppy effect on his serotonin levels.