[Sherlock looks over at John sharply at the mention of days. Eight days. Over a week. His keen eyes flash over the Army doctor in seconds, affirming that... that he wasn't hurt. He wasn't tortured.
There's a relief on his features, even as his wing flutters lightly under the attentions. It resists the extension, and he winces a bit, but it's certainly healing. A compliant bird with a wounded wing, submitting to a trusted owner or vet's look-over.
...But the mention of a barcode makes Sherlock tense, and he raises his hand to touch the back of his neck, as if he expects to be able to feel it.
Then there's the question.
Sherlock looks at the wall again, and both his wings quiver, the unharmed one extending (with the battered one doing its best) before they try to pull back against him. Anxiety followed by a heavy guard.
no subject
There's a relief on his features, even as his wing flutters lightly under the attentions. It resists the extension, and he winces a bit, but it's certainly healing. A compliant bird with a wounded wing, submitting to a trusted owner or vet's look-over.
...But the mention of a barcode makes Sherlock tense, and he raises his hand to touch the back of his neck, as if he expects to be able to feel it.
Then there's the question.
Sherlock looks at the wall again, and both his wings quiver, the unharmed one extending (with the battered one doing its best) before they try to pull back against him. Anxiety followed by a heavy guard.
He could lie...]
Not enough to understand how I got here.
[...Or pretty much not answer.]