Location - a disturbing hallway

[rlyprivateperson]

There is a passageway in Sojourner dotted with irregularly-placed stone plinths that serve as columns for a latticed ceiling. The first thing one might notice about it is the scent wafting forth; a sweet, warm smell that is... well, what is it? A scent from one's childhood, surely, a comforting scent. Fresh bread for some. Mown grass for others. But it's a scent that tugs one's lips into a smile, and twinges a string of nostalgia in the heart, and more often than not, draws feet in that direction.

Finch has one such pair of feet. He limps down the corridor, his leashed dog at his side; and he pauses occasionally to sniff the air, to smile absently, then to resume his forward progress and idle inspection of each of the rough-hewn stone monoliths he passes. There are no markings, but they glitter as if fine mica or quartz had been dusted along their slate-dark surfaces.

Another scent, replacing the fragrance of (for Harold Finch) a pot roast dinner. This one is... thick in the air, cloying, and Finch pauses with a slow blush creeping up his neck. (For Harold Finch, it's now the smell of a former lover's aftershave; for others it might be any number of scents that bring to mind intimate moments.) After a long, hesitating moment (while Bear whines in confusion, his canine nose registering entirely different things than a human might), he keeps going.

And any others who follow this fascinating olfactory trail to its conclusion - well, they find Harold Finch standing at a blank wall that fills the passage floor to ceiling. It appears to be steel - or something like it - its blank, ugly surface scarred and pitted with gouges and gashes, like a spoon put down the garbage disposal.

And for those viewing it? They feel a curious sense of existential dread, visceral, dwelling in the gut rather than the mind. There is no obvious threat. There is no sense of a knife-wielding maniac or a monster about to devour you. There is only that wall, flat, scarred, final as a summary execution, and the slow flooding awareness that all is meaningless, has been meaningless, will always be meaningless.

Harold Finch stands and stars, stands and stares. There is a cold sweat beaded on his brow, and he looks somewhat grey around the gills.

The dog barks, a worried sound, unsure what is wrong with his human but knowing that something surely is.

[ooc: Open to any! Finch is going to stubbornly return to this wall a few times, so multiple people should feel free to jump in and we'll assume chronological jumps if necessary. Feel free to add any details about this hallway you think would be interesting!]

Comments

[rlyprivateperson]

No says the young man, no, he doesn't have many friends, and the baldness of the statement, the awkward addendums to it, do more than many things might have to somewhat defuse Finch's own tight, coiled anger.

It's guileless and it contains none of the notes he might have expected. No tight smirk, no edged comment that someone such as, say, Sameen Shaw might haven given (Nah, they get in my way) or even the little flinch he supposes the words might have elicited in, say, John Reese, with his omnipresent longing for the fantasy of a normal life. If his words cut this young man (as Finch must admit to himself he had been aiming for, at least a little bit), then it doesn't show; his words might as well have been a non sequitur, he supposes.

Finch exhales. He has a better sense of this odd young man: there is no malice behind what he is doing, just a vast gulf of-- ignorance. A strange word to apply to all those far-too-exact observations, perhaps, but true all the same: ignorance of others as.... people, as people with needs and feelings and fears. A deep awareness of people as puzzles, instead.

There'd been a time he'd not been entirely dissimilar, Finch supposes. Though he likes to flatter himself he might have been less rude.

"Af, Bear," he murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, while the young man awkwardly carries on trying to solve the Puzzle that is Harold Finch, and, just as awkwardly, puts little pieces of himself out. 'Awkward' is a fitting word for him, Finch thinks. Despite a certain fine-bonedness to his features and what Finch will grant is a flattering wardrobe, he wouldn't class the young man as attractive-- because of that awkwardness. There's something lost about the way he volunteers things about himself. That phrase: to be fair. He's finally clued in he's done something to offend-- but doesn't stop doing it: he's still speculating, and then uncertainly offering forth details about himself, as if to square the balance. As if he didn't know how else to try and right things.

Finch closes his eyes a moment, and rubs at his face, fingers sliding up beneath his glasses to do so. Bear has dutifully eased back down, but is still being watchful.

Very well: he's run into a precocious hyper-observant-- an extraordinarily clever young man (except where it comes to emotional intelligence) who is used to putting his talents to work for law enforcement. Finch mulls this over a few seconds, and resists the urge to rub his fingertips together self-consciously at the mention of his calluses.

"Thank you for the suggestion," he sighs. He's tried any number of keyboards, ergonomic and otherwise, but no matter. "Well, you have quite the eye for details, detective, but presumably you know that about yourself already." It's not quite a confirmation of any of those half-fishing statements, nor a rebuttal of any of them either.

Finch pauses a moment. "What made you consider a bomb blast?" he asks, because with the blaring alarms starting to ease, he is left still with the curiosity.

[infinitelystranger]

The other man eases up, and Sherlock wonders briefly at what makes some people soften and others not: towards him, specifically, and towards his particular brand of candor. It makes him think of John, somewhat and incongruously; more than that, however, it makes him think of Gregory Lestrade. It wouldn't be accurate to say that Lestrade never took anything personally; it would be more accurate to say that Lestrade readily let go of any rancor. Lestrade took Sherlock in context. It'd probably be too much to say that he took him in stride.

The comparison ends there, naturally: this man has nothing in common with an ordinary Metropolitan Police detective inspector. But it gives Sherlock a flicker of homesickness, and... regret, is that what he's identifying? And now, offered the chance to back away from his careening train of conversation and into more comfortable territory, he does, pausing for a long moment to consider his words.

"The way your nerve damage radiates, rather than being a bit more centralized," he says with a nod to Finch. He doubts he has to explain the man's disability to himself, so he doesn't: falling instead to, "To answer your true question, it's a matter of observing enough case studies of bomb and automobile crash survivors. Once you've examined the patterns, they become evident in individual cases. I've had reason to study both." His mouth takes on a wry twist. "It's a matter of research. As you see, the trick is not so impressive once the magician explains it."

[rlyprivateperson]

Finch listens, his head tilted to the side, absorbing this, and absorbing the young man's delivery as well. He's not reluctant to talk about his methods, then. Pleased, maybe? Harold himself had always been pleased, when Nathan had inquired as to what he was doing with his computers.

He notes that little wry twist to the mouth, as well, and has to stop himself from snorting. It would hardly be politic. There's a touch of aggrieved bitterness there, isn't there? Huhmmn.

"Oh, it's still rather impressive," Finch says after two seconds' consideration. "Observing patterns is a skill. One I must assume you've practiced a great deal, in order to be able to draw conclusions like that. But you must be aware a stranger might not-- welcome having a painful bit of their past so casually discussed?"

Finch's voice is even now, not the hard fear of earlier. If there is a hyper-observant deductive genius around, Finch would rather the person were.... cultivated not hostile, at the least.