The dog registers, emphatically. The distress of the man was present before--though Sherlock hadn't quite quantified it that way, distress--but the dog has his hackles up. He considers Sherlock a threat. It hadn't really occurred to Sherlock that, whatever else he was doing, he could be considered threatening; yet here they are, and here the dog is, on the verge of growling at him. That snaps him back to reality more than the stranger's question.
... But the stranger's question does, too. There is something edged and self-protective about the man's response, as well as offended: Sherlock is used to offended, all right, and in the habit of brushing it off as the go-to response of people who don't like the truths they hear. Certainly Lestrade has detectives like that.
But there is a part of even Sherlock Holmes that is aware of the existence of lines, and of crossing them. There are things even he doesn't say aloud to people about their appearances. Perhaps--he considers--perhaps this should have been one of them. Or there was a point of no return, sooner or later, before which he should've turned back.
No, no. Sherlock frowns minutely; other people are always turning back, conversationally, people are ever in the habit of walking back the statements they make to test boundaries, or in the service of candor. It's just that he isn't. This is foreign territory.
As a few more facts introduce themselves (dog for protection, not just guidance; what was his industry, anyway?) he thinks about how to respond, and opts ultimately to tilt his head to one side and say, frankly, "No. Well. Not particularly."
He's at a loss for where to go with this from here. Unfortunately, there is only one way he knows particularly well.
"I took you for independently wealthy," he says after a moment. "But now I'm thinking tech: something in security? I suppose I should say something about myself. To be fair. I'm a detective." Pause. "Not with the police. Well. Sort of with the police--" This is all coming out halting, awkward. "You have keyboard calluses. Most people do, now, but not quite like that, not at your age. You should consider ergonomic."
no subject
... But the stranger's question does, too. There is something edged and self-protective about the man's response, as well as offended: Sherlock is used to offended, all right, and in the habit of brushing it off as the go-to response of people who don't like the truths they hear. Certainly Lestrade has detectives like that.
But there is a part of even Sherlock Holmes that is aware of the existence of lines, and of crossing them. There are things even he doesn't say aloud to people about their appearances. Perhaps--he considers--perhaps this should have been one of them. Or there was a point of no return, sooner or later, before which he should've turned back.
No, no. Sherlock frowns minutely; other people are always turning back, conversationally, people are ever in the habit of walking back the statements they make to test boundaries, or in the service of candor. It's just that he isn't. This is foreign territory.
As a few more facts introduce themselves (dog for protection, not just guidance; what was his industry, anyway?) he thinks about how to respond, and opts ultimately to tilt his head to one side and say, frankly, "No. Well. Not particularly."
He's at a loss for where to go with this from here. Unfortunately, there is only one way he knows particularly well.
"I took you for independently wealthy," he says after a moment. "But now I'm thinking tech: something in security? I suppose I should say something about myself. To be fair. I'm a detective." Pause. "Not with the police. Well. Sort of with the police--" This is all coming out halting, awkward. "You have keyboard calluses. Most people do, now, but not quite like that, not at your age. You should consider ergonomic."