"The very least..." it trails off into an irritable silence, as if to say the very least they deserve is to be ignored, or perhaps to be left somewhere very much out of the way to fend for themselves, which is quite clearly beyond them.
His concentration is ruined now, but he tries to regain it for a few moments more, staring out across the city and trying to ignore the incessant, too-slow clicking of John's keyboard. That careful, slow typing is bad enough most of the time, but now it's hardly bearable. He can tell he's doing it on purpose, going slow and being deliberate so as not to make an error. It's how he types e-mails, when he intends to type and send it off. Blog posts he writes faster, a storm of tapping because he'll come back later for a re-read to edit, and at least it's got the rhythm of rain going for it. This, though...
He sighs when John stops typing, starts talking. Sherlock's vaguely familiar with at least two of the suicides, remembering when they hit the papers in the last few months. He's not interested, as it happens. It's not terribly uncommon for someone in one of those places to hear about a rash of cases, either through the paper or from the nursing staff, and for a symptom to develop as a result. There may in fact be more there worth his time, but he doesn't think so, and he's not in a place where he feels keen to entertain a probable dead end. He wants a hook, wants something good, something compelling. He'll know it when he finds it.
"No," he says, very deliberate and final as he turns to face John, finally. Clearly, his staring and brooding is over now. Thanks, John.
no subject
His concentration is ruined now, but he tries to regain it for a few moments more, staring out across the city and trying to ignore the incessant, too-slow clicking of John's keyboard. That careful, slow typing is bad enough most of the time, but now it's hardly bearable. He can tell he's doing it on purpose, going slow and being deliberate so as not to make an error. It's how he types e-mails, when he intends to type and send it off. Blog posts he writes faster, a storm of tapping because he'll come back later for a re-read to edit, and at least it's got the rhythm of rain going for it. This, though...
He sighs when John stops typing, starts talking. Sherlock's vaguely familiar with at least two of the suicides, remembering when they hit the papers in the last few months. He's not interested, as it happens. It's not terribly uncommon for someone in one of those places to hear about a rash of cases, either through the paper or from the nursing staff, and for a symptom to develop as a result. There may in fact be more there worth his time, but he doesn't think so, and he's not in a place where he feels keen to entertain a probable dead end. He wants a hook, wants something good, something compelling. He'll know it when he finds it.
"No," he says, very deliberate and final as he turns to face John, finally. Clearly, his staring and brooding is over now. Thanks, John.