Bored

In a sense, her work did literally keep her young. it was standard procedure for all recruits to have their aging suspended during training, and keeping that suspension while away on long reconnaissance helped allay suspicions about long business trips back at home. She wouldn’t classify what she did as police work except in only the loosest use of the term, but going around declaring herself a time traveling whatever it was she could call it probably went against several different protocols, not to mention her mental limits.

"That would be a no," he responded with a soft laugh, his gaze falling again as he shook his head. Not nearly as useful as he'd hoped, although there was still a chance of twisting this to his favour. He felt, though, as if he'd hit an impasse with his own reasons and experimentation. He'd got what he needed out of the woman, hadn't he? Mentally he ticked off his checklist. Name, age, basic information, he'd shared a social experience. There was only one thing left.

This was getting ridiculous. Out of hand. Of all people to question about their true nature and identity, Sherlock had picked exactly the wrong person; Dean Winchester was a closed individual. He liked to keep to himself, with exception of his brother, who was his companion on the hunt and during the travels that took them from case to case. He had many secrets, deep, dark secrets that he sometimes couldn’t even share with his younger brother, things he wouldn’t talk about to anyone. It was all a matter of bottling things up and never letting them see daylight, and whenever someone prodded at those things, Dean would either shrug it off as casually as possible, or get snappy and defensive so they would back away.

Oh, that had struck a nerve. Too forward, although the former detective should have seen that coming. Closed posture, sudden defense and distance, it was a wonder the man hadn't gotten up and strode off. Not that it would make a difference - Sherlock was into this game enough to chase after him, at this point - but it said something to his engagement of him that he'd stayed. Twirling his fork a little, almost playfully, Sherlock shrugged, the smile lilting his voice slightly when he spoke.

This wasn’t quite hesitation but instead it seemed to be how this particular mortal processed thoughts. The eye movements were almost enough to give away every thought behind that dark head of hair but for now Loki chose to keep quite on that fact. He would be more entertained by this meeting if he didn’t give himself completely away. To that point, the god feigned a shocked and confused look as his first question was ignored, the one that he had spoken aloud. Instead the stranger went right for the unspoken one.

"Your name." He couldn't be serious. All that presentation, and he couldn't even follow a simple thread of thought into conversation? Smirking slightly, Sherlock rose, feeling much more confident, and stumbled slightly on his way into the kitchen. Magic tricks, after all, it seemed. How incredibly boring. The tap screamed at him when it was turned on, and he growled at it softly, scowling as he filled a glass, and being careful not to stumble again on his way to a clean corner of the table. Glass was broken nearby, and he poked at it, sipping his water, contemplating his next move.

“Always when I give them the day off. Always!” Jack rushed from his desk to the computer that was responsible for all the racket. He entered a couple of commands and silenced the alarm, while also pulling up the information for the program that was running. The rift monitoring program of course. The rift had been active, he saw the spike in the energy field but he wasn’t as good at tracking down where it came from as the others were. That’s why it was their job, but he could figure it out for the most part. He hoped.

It wasn't so much that he was being approached on the street in an unfamiliar world, by someone who was clearly an authority figure, having done nothing wrong. It was that this seemed to happen universally, no matter who he was with, what he was doing, or, in this case, where he was. Sherlock hadn't been in a bad way for a long time, that was something he prided himself on, but he'd often wondered if he unconsciously wore an air or carried himself in a way that rang warning bells for law enforcement officers. Not being aware of something like that wasn't very typically Sherlock, and the idea set his teeth on edge. Already upset, he had to clench his fists not to punch the man who ran headlong into him, wondering if it were his oversized coat or the shoes that were slightly too big for him that made him so clumsy, or if it was a natural occurrence. Instead of responding immediately, however, Sherlock took his time, inhaling sharply in order to display an intent to reply, but giving the man a cursory look over. What he saw he didn't like.

Very little could unnerve the detective, that was true, but with caution thrown to the wind one might expect Sherlock to have a few regrets. He had a name, finally, although from its presentation it didn't much matter. Either it was an alias, or names didn't matter in the business of whatever this man did or was.

Poor Mycroft. All he wanted was to learn to seduce women and suddenly he was faced with two children adults circling one another like predators. It was quite surprising that he managed to keep his cool (for the most part) and Irene could admire that much about him. Then again, the government official must have been used to his brother’s mannerisms — perhaps he had just adapted.

Mycroft looked slightly confused as Sherlock grabbed Irene’s wrist. Surely you weren’t meant to act like a jealous lover when seducing people? Wouldn’t that to drie them away? He didn’t question it though, as Sherlock seemed to think he knew what he was doing. However, when the teo’s faces were brought close together he couldn’t help but comment.

"It depends," Sherlock responded to Mycroft's inquiry quickly enough to preempt any answer Irene might have given, "very greatly on your target." Lips parted between his words, he let his eyes drift across Irene's face, his voice low in a practised tone that only ever showed when he was acting or very, very angry. "It's all circumstantial..." While the hand on Irene's wrist remained there, his other rose slowly, allowing the woman to see it in her peripheral vision as it reached toward her cheek. Already this was leaning in his favour, though, so when he brushed the backs of his fingers against her skin, he knew she wouldn't run.

There was no reason to be particular. Strange as the man was, as little as Sherlock could glean from him, he wasn't afraid. Very little could truly unnerve the detective, and in this case he was far too busy contemplating every little thing about the stranger to be preoccupied with caution. However, John would be back. They needed to move, yes, and there was nothing that stated Sherlock would lose control if they were to take the latter option. It was still a confined space, and he had enough confidence in himself that the circumstances would not fall out of his hands.

When he jerked up, off the sofa and staring into the darkness, he caught the sight of a figure. Immediately, John leaned over and flicked on the light, letting out a yell. “Who the hell are you?” He yelled, grabbing his cane and brandishing it like a sword. Oh, that wasn’t smart, now he couldn’t stand without losing his weapon. His jaw locked, he kept his fingers wrapped around the metal stick tightly, til they were almost white.

Subtlely, a frown crossed Sherlock's face, as very slowly the clues began to fall into place. Just as surely as any case would. Lips parted slightly in thought, his steepled fingers wilting and falling between his knees. He didn't move, though, not at first. This was still his home, in a sense, and he wouldn't be forced out of it by the one man he'd trusted enough to let into it with him. He couldn't help but laugh, softly.

Funny how the appearance of Sherlock Holmes could sour Irene’s mood. She wasn’t particularly fond of being caught in any compromising position, and things were only made worse by the fact that Sherlock had been the one to catch her — he didn’t have the capacity to let things slide, but neither did Irene.

“Disappointed in me? Oh yes, because attempting to learn a new skill is such a terrible thing, isn’t it?” Mycroft growled at Sherlock, getting over the surprise of him just randomly walking in and now getting a little annoyed. “Be quiet, Sherlock. You can’t just randomly walk into another man’s house and then insult him - even if he is your brother. Of you’re going to be rude, just leave.”

"Am I not enough of a challenge for you, Miss Adler? I'd rather gotten the opposite impression." Before he could snark at her further, however, he was interrupted by his brother - always the one to step between him and anything he wanted, wasn't that right? In a show of control he didn't feel, he closed his eyes and set his jaw against the desire to scream at Mycroft, or maybe the world in general. This was not turning out to be his year.