His smile is something grim as John speaks, Holmes' face a dry agreement with what he's saying, probably, or maybe he's just addressing the small folded cloth on the top shelf of the locker - his tobacco, amongst... other poisons. He pockets it in a ratty, grey number of a robe inside, and it's only when John's voice peters off that he realizes the boy has something in his hands and he seems to be giving it some deep thought.
A wallet. Something simple to someone else, but Holmes doesn't see a young man's wallet, something bright and colorful like John's expressions; he sees the wallet of someone else. An older male individual, likely related - could be an uncle, a grandfather, but a father is most likely, or at least a figure as such. Not stolen, he doesn't seem the type, so sentiment, but what sort of sentiment? His father leaving, abandoning him, isn't likely to drum up that sort of nostalgia and so, conclusion: His father was dead.
Holmes doesn't say a word, eyes sketching over the wallet one last time before he starts to blow a few tobacco flakes from his pipe. "It really is merely a game. How I wish to tell you it was something more complicated than that. One makes more sense of adults when they're younger, and as their true methods unfold, the more shadowy they become."
Wow, he does not know what a Bill Cosby is at all, but he's sure he's an upstanding sort of man who wears some fantastic knitwear. His paraphernalia well out of the way and his robe safely tucked over his arm, he swings it wide to show his jumpsuit, a small gold-plated steampunk sort of apparatus, and a dusky violin sitting at the bottom, complete with bow. "The dregs of another life, I fear. Nothing so interesting as your William might be."
no subject
A wallet. Something simple to someone else, but Holmes doesn't see a young man's wallet, something bright and colorful like John's expressions; he sees the wallet of someone else. An older male individual, likely related - could be an uncle, a grandfather, but a father is most likely, or at least a figure as such. Not stolen, he doesn't seem the type, so sentiment, but what sort of sentiment? His father leaving, abandoning him, isn't likely to drum up that sort of nostalgia and so, conclusion: His father was dead.
Holmes doesn't say a word, eyes sketching over the wallet one last time before he starts to blow a few tobacco flakes from his pipe. "It really is merely a game. How I wish to tell you it was something more complicated than that. One makes more sense of adults when they're younger, and as their true methods unfold, the more shadowy they become."
Wow, he does not know what a Bill Cosby is at all, but he's sure he's an upstanding sort of man who wears some fantastic knitwear. His paraphernalia well out of the way and his robe safely tucked over his arm, he swings it wide to show his jumpsuit, a small gold-plated steampunk sort of apparatus, and a dusky violin sitting at the bottom, complete with bow. "The dregs of another life, I fear. Nothing so interesting as your William might be."