milliways_bar | (no subject)

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"Really?" John Watson says as he steps through the door. To his credit, he barely misses a beat at the sudden change of scenery and just keeps walking, now aiming for the Bar rather than the drawing room. "Really? That's your excuse." He's still dressed for London in November, hat tipped slightly askew and cane in hand.

"Your waistcoat, my dear Watson, is simply too small for you," Holmes answers, hooking his thumbs in the article of clothing in question as he follows Watson in at a much more measured pace - one could say leisurely.

"Think of it as a charitable act, a donation from the very depths of your generosity."

"--No," says Watson, in a tone that would be thoughtful if it wasn't quite so irritated. "No." He pulls the current issue of the Times out from under his arm (where he has been carrying it tucked between his arm and his body), points at Holmes with it in a vaguely threatening manner, says, "No" one more time, and breaks off to stump over toward the fireplace, where he will drop down into an armchair and start aggressively reading the day's news, apparently having decided to refuse any dealings with Holmes at this particular moment in time.

"Consider this a favor," Holmes calls out after him, glancing down at the waistcoat and brushing off a smudge of invisible dirt. "It's hardly your color, old chap."

He proceeds to the Bar in pursuit of a drink - only to find it inconveniently abandoned.

He glances back at Watson, seemingly engrossed in his paper.

Less than a moment later, he's ducked behind the Bar, re-familiarizing himself with the available stock.

[OOC: Two pups, two muns, but only Holmes is available for tagging. (Watson-mun is going the fuck to sleep, say sorry!) Come and get your bartending on!]

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Finally! Someone not her is bartending!

"Is there anything back there that's not Zima?" inquires a dubious brunette.

Holmes is very thoroughly examining a bottle, the contents of which look somewhat curious.

He opens it, takes a precautionary sip, and then swigs from it directly.

"Explain to me this zima," he asks, without glancing over.

"Alcoholic, barely," replies Ava, to whom weirdness does not register the way it used to.

She takes a seat.

"It tastes like lemon-lime. And everybody hates it. There's a whole case down there somewhere."

"If everyone carries such a distaste for it, as you say, then it is likely said case will remain there."

Holmes re-corks the bottle and sets it down on the bar.

"It would appear the selection here has severely decreased in number since I was here last."

"Let me guess."

Her eyebrows arch.

"You missed the army of monsters."

"Monsters?"

Holmes frowns in thought.

"Well, I wouldn't have exactly made it a point to."

"A point to miss them, or a point to be around?"

"To miss them, most certainly."

One's definition of monsters is relative here, but Holmes has met a very impressive woman with emerald skin once.

He knows she isn't speaking of the metaphorical.

"They were pretty nuts," Ava admits.

"Even by ... monster standards."

Hopefully he'll find something useful, because the shortish (5'3") Korean-looking girl with the steel-grey hair and a number of facial scars doesn't seem to be able to spot where anything is from her side of things. "Um," she says. "I don't suppose any of the beer made it through intact?"

"Intact?"

Holmes has crouched behind the bar for a closer examination of what appears to be a rather large divot in the wood - created by a blade, most likely.

"Why, had it previously been damaged?"

"Well, the place looks like a bit of a wreck," Ellen says very reasonably. "Considering how much the furniture and the walls've been damaged, I don't know how many glass bottles would've necessarily avoided being broken."

"Unless they were in a position to be shielded," Holmes muses out loud, more to himself than the young woman.

As his eyes scan the area around him, he disappears, dropping down out of sight behind the bar again.

"Right," says Ellen, "which is why I'm asking if any of the beer, in particular, happens to still be intact. If it is, I'd like to place an order."

"It would have to be greatly fortified!" Holmes calls out, voice half-muffled from beneath the bar.

"Perhaps in a case, or some sort of chest!"

"That's possible," Ellen concedes, leaning over to see if she can spot anything where he's not rooting around. "Possibly a locked one, in which case I can probably get the lock open without too much trouble. Um, do you need any help back there?"

"No, I am quite adept at locks," Holmes replies, peeking out from underneath the bar.

"Although if you have a lockpick in your possession, that would not go amiss."

"I've got a box of bobby pins and a screwdriver," Ellen says. "My actual lockpicks are back at the factory."

She'll hold out the pins and the screwdriver anyway, just in case.

There are, at least, good smells coming from the kitchen.

They're soon followed by a red-headed baker carrying a tray of various baked goods, the most prominent of which being the oven fresh cinnamon rolls that are each roughly the size of human heads.

The tray is rested on the bar nearby, so Sunshine can sort out the signs indicating prices.

"Evening," she greets the unfamiliar bartender with a smile, unsticking two price signs that had somehow gotten icing in between them.

The scents presently wafting from that tray could only be described as mouthwatering, and Holmes barely manages something of an acknowledging nod before rounding the bar, resting his elbows on its mottled surface and cupping his chin in one hand.

"I don't believe we've been introduced," he replies, though he is, of course, mostly talking to the rolls.

"I... don't think so either," she says, smiling slightly. She recognizes that look. Nine years as Head Baker and still she hasn't yet developed that immunity to flattery, verbal or not.

"I'm Rae, though everyone calls me Sunshine."

Probably fitting, considering the very faint pinpricks of golden light set into her skin and hair like a network or web.

"I'm a baker," she adds as though it weren't obvious, and offers him a huge, gooey roll smelling warmly of cinnamon and sugar. The faint scars showing on her arms where she's rolled up her sleeve are anything but bakerly, though the only ones that truly stand out are the sickle-shaped knife-scar just below her collarbone on the left side (right-handed assailant, holding her from behind) and the thin, necklace-like burn scar looping her neck.

He takes the roll with a brief if sincere smile of his own, nodding slowly. He'd noted the scars, if only for a moment or two, their edges not quite mottled enough to be identified as something resulting from a traditional baking accident - those would typically be on the hands or arms, and these are decidedly not.

"And is that all you do?" he asks, around a mouthful of warm roll. "Bake?"

"As both profession and vocation, yeah," she smiles, helping herself to a small slice of a rich, dark-chocolate cake as deep and dark and delicious as sin.

She is a phenomenal baker.

She is a horrible liar.

"Mmm."

Holmes' response is not presently limited to his enjoyment of the sweet roll.

He's established his own deductions, but he won't attempt to share them. Watson has explained to him the virtues of not necessarily doing so.

She is currently pretending to ignore his misgivings, while enjoying the slice of Bitter Chocolate Death.

"So that's me and the cinnamon rolls introduced," Rae remarks. "What about you?"

Moist is feeling tired and Franz is close by his side after the conversation with Urquhart.

When he sees Holmes behind the Bar, he smiles and says, "Whiskey, neat, please, MacAbre if there's any about."

"Thanks for helping take up the slack," says the large, mutant turtle who takes a seat at the bar. "I don't suppose you've found any tea in the chaos back there?"

Shazza hasn't been here in a while, but even so, she remembers it being... less damaged? This looks like the aftermath of a riot, which would actually lend creedence, in her book, to this actually being a bar.

Still, there's a decent chance at a drink where the boys can't harrass her, so she'll take her files to the Bar, and help herself to a barstool.

"Ah... pardon me? Could I get a pint of bitter?"

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