There's a myriad of confusing elements that he doesn't have much time to process - the lift, specifically, is the biggest one for the moment. It's not as if he's not familiar with a pulley system and the idea of a lift, but it's an entirely different thing when he considers the freight capacity of this thing. Barring that, it's clearly advanced from the series of ropes, checks, balances, manual raising or lowering by either man or by crank, but all Sherlock has to do is press a button. Buttons in his own handwriting, just about - the slant, the pressure, the flourishes, and the general hurried chickenscratch of it, at the least. It's not a difficult leap to guess who's labeled the lift.
He thankfully doesn't ask any questions, if not just because he doesn't imagine that Sherlock really knows much about the thing, how it works and everything else therein. It's not something Holmes would deem as entirely important in his hunter-gatherer type of existence. Perhaps if pertaining to a case, he would learn, but otherwise.
The Oxygen Garden is as estimated - an oxygen 'factory' will, of course, require trees. A repetitive title, but the repetition is likely referring to the importance of it. There's no reason for trees within a building, particularly this many, unless they serve a particular purpose. If one wants something beautiful, they'll use flowers, perhaps ferns, that which isn't as capable of completing the oxygenation process. The trees mean there isn't a natural air supply within their surroundings.
No air in space? It doesn't make sense. The universe is nothing but a wide expanse. There aren't any windows. Perhaps they're merely underground - deep underground. The attempt to convince those within that they were, in fact, in space would directly pertain to a more difficult escape attempt. But it's only a theory.
His thoughts are churning with elevators, with trees, with ground, with Earth and that which is outside of it, and it's not until Sherlock speaks up again, 'we're discussing Moriarty,' that Holmes' thoughts are brought zeroed back into the one subject, the one at hand. He shoots Sherlock a look, withering and mildly condescending. Of course they're discussing Moriarty - who else in the world would be so important and so very poisonous as him?
Holmes sets his things beside them both, propping himself up onto the tree trunk and cupping his pipe in a hand. "If you will." He moves his gaze between the pipe and then to Sherlock. "I seem to have injured my shoulder. You'll know to keep to only the parts which aren't boring, of course."
no subject
There's a myriad of confusing elements that he doesn't have much time to process - the lift, specifically, is the biggest one for the moment. It's not as if he's not familiar with a pulley system and the idea of a lift, but it's an entirely different thing when he considers the freight capacity of this thing. Barring that, it's clearly advanced from the series of ropes, checks, balances, manual raising or lowering by either man or by crank, but all Sherlock has to do is press a button. Buttons in his own handwriting, just about - the slant, the pressure, the flourishes, and the general hurried chickenscratch of it, at the least. It's not a difficult leap to guess who's labeled the lift.
He thankfully doesn't ask any questions, if not just because he doesn't imagine that Sherlock really knows much about the thing, how it works and everything else therein. It's not something Holmes would deem as entirely important in his hunter-gatherer type of existence. Perhaps if pertaining to a case, he would learn, but otherwise.
The Oxygen Garden is as estimated - an oxygen 'factory' will, of course, require trees. A repetitive title, but the repetition is likely referring to the importance of it. There's no reason for trees within a building, particularly this many, unless they serve a particular purpose. If one wants something beautiful, they'll use flowers, perhaps ferns, that which isn't as capable of completing the oxygenation process. The trees mean there isn't a natural air supply within their surroundings.
No air in space? It doesn't make sense. The universe is nothing but a wide expanse. There aren't any windows. Perhaps they're merely underground - deep underground. The attempt to convince those within that they were, in fact, in space would directly pertain to a more difficult escape attempt. But it's only a theory.
His thoughts are churning with elevators, with trees, with ground, with Earth and that which is outside of it, and it's not until Sherlock speaks up again, 'we're discussing Moriarty,' that Holmes' thoughts are brought zeroed back into the one subject, the one at hand. He shoots Sherlock a look, withering and mildly condescending. Of course they're discussing Moriarty - who else in the world would be so important and so very poisonous as him?
Holmes sets his things beside them both, propping himself up onto the tree trunk and cupping his pipe in a hand. "If you will." He moves his gaze between the pipe and then to Sherlock. "I seem to have injured my shoulder. You'll know to keep to only the parts which aren't boring, of course."