[ Pale eyes flick up from a beaker to regard Charles, but only for a moment. The dark-haired man is stirring a clear liquid with a glass rod, but the presence of goggles and the overhead whirr of the fume hood should do away with the possibility of the product being water.
Charles should know that Sherlock has spent long hours in a lab before, his study in college being chemistry with an inclination toward toxicology. He dropped out before he could finish.
Because in his mind, everything begins with a corpse, blue and beginning to bloat from death in the water, strewn across a tile floor. Like a present, tied round in ribbons of red police tape. Intrigue (Where are his shoes?) haunts him while he drifts along in the spirit of some normalcy. And there will be more corpses, chemistry, chases, and gunshots. Drugs. Sherlock is an addict, but he's a peculiar breed at best. It's mental stimulation he craves above all else. There's some sense of expectancy here with Charles' appearance, a chord of curiosity after the small games he's offered the consulting detective. ]
It's difficult to work with a lab that isn't stocked with potentially dangerous chemicals.