[ Looking at someone 'weird' doesn't mean much to him so he lets it go.
Though no one really bats an eye at a teenage boy, stuffing his pockets with food, Sherlock files the observation away, remembering their first text exchange. Metabolism, he thinks, checks out. He follows Peter quietly, thinking their last conversation over and picking out details, matching things up (Stark Gala - Stark, that name again, yielded quite a number of google results - science conference, matches available data so far concerning the kid's academic (intellectual) prowess and interest; but more so, Peter's carefulness, an ever-present undercurrent in their conversations; can't be found out, can't be revealed - my aunt, he wrote - too little family, particularly when family matters to you, when you're vulnerable without them; when there are people who'd hurt them to hurt you). He's forming a picture of Peter and it's intriguing. Spider-person, whatever that means (data pending). Painfully intelligent, burdened by sentiment, though he's young, he's got time to wise up.
Upon stepping into his hotel room and looking around with a sniff of distaste - suddenly and forcibly reminded why he hated sharing sleeping quarters with people back in public school - he shrugs at Peter's comment and shuts the door behind him with a soft click. ]
I looked over your nylon-mixture earlier this morning. [ As in, 3am, sleep's terribly overrated. ] It's an exciting invention in itself, certainly, very complex. Advanced. [ His eyes narrow just a fraction. ] But that's just you, isn't it. Your intellect, less than ordinary, not unheard of. Crawling on walls, however, now that's interesting. Tell me how - seeing as you probably won't allow me to figure it out for myself.
[ Meaning, putting your limbs under a microscope isn't an option, he knows Peter. It's a crying shame, though. ]
no subject
Though no one really bats an eye at a teenage boy, stuffing his pockets with food, Sherlock files the observation away, remembering their first text exchange. Metabolism, he thinks, checks out. He follows Peter quietly, thinking their last conversation over and picking out details, matching things up (Stark Gala - Stark, that name again, yielded quite a number of google results - science conference, matches available data so far concerning the kid's academic (intellectual) prowess and interest; but more so, Peter's carefulness, an ever-present undercurrent in their conversations; can't be found out, can't be revealed - my aunt, he wrote - too little family, particularly when family matters to you, when you're vulnerable without them; when there are people who'd hurt them to hurt you). He's forming a picture of Peter and it's intriguing. Spider-person, whatever that means (data pending). Painfully intelligent, burdened by sentiment, though he's young, he's got time to wise up.
Upon stepping into his hotel room and looking around with a sniff of distaste - suddenly and forcibly reminded why he hated sharing sleeping quarters with people back in public school - he shrugs at Peter's comment and shuts the door behind him with a soft click. ]
I looked over your nylon-mixture earlier this morning. [ As in, 3am, sleep's terribly overrated. ] It's an exciting invention in itself, certainly, very complex. Advanced. [ His eyes narrow just a fraction. ] But that's just you, isn't it. Your intellect, less than ordinary, not unheard of. Crawling on walls, however, now that's interesting. Tell me how - seeing as you probably won't allow me to figure it out for myself.
[ Meaning, putting your limbs under a microscope isn't an option, he knows Peter. It's a crying shame, though. ]