When Guy noticed the eyeroll, he gave Sherlock a Look, something steeped in 'am I boring you?' and sprinkled with a delicate dusting of 'because if I am, I don't care.'
"You know, we were having a Moment there and you killed it. You're a Moment murderer," he said wryly to the man. "I can tell already, you're a ruiner. You are a ruiner of things."
But then it registered that Sherlock suggested he and Joan go back to camp and the expression faded away.
That was familiar. After his years alone, when he'd come across groups of people now and again, they'd sometimes talked, traded a bit, shared some stories, but then they'd always made it clear they were going to move on - or that he should. He was an extra mouth to potentially feed, a stranger, someone wandering unattached through life and they had no way of knowing why.
He'd never blamed them. After all, if someone wandered alone without a family or tribe, there was always the possibility that they'd been kicked out of one for some reason, that they couldn't be trusted. Maybe if he'd been younger when running across those people they'd have taken him in, but he'd been in his teens by then. An adult.
It hadn't bothered him for a long time. Right now, for some reason, it did just a little, but then maybe that was because after finding his new family, he thought he'd never again get any subtle hints to be on his way.
But it was fair and he didn't know if he could trust them, either.
"Thank you," he said to Joan, after a moment. "For being kind. And helping me calm down. And, uh, for not trying to beat me in the head with a rock since that was always a distinct possibility."
He smiled a small smile. It faded as he wondered if her tendency to talk rather than beat people with rocks would affect her chances of survival. He hoped not. At least she had territorial menacingly tall friends who seemed protective of her, apparently.
"You said you didn't want them to change the person you are. Good luck with that." It was clear he was being genuine. He added, vaguely, his eyes distant, looking thoughtful but not sad, "That's a fight that can be a little hard-won, not changing when things are hard, but it's always possible."
He shrugged slightly. "Just...trust me on that. I hope you manage it."
Then he turned to Sherlock. "And you, oh Gargantuan one, keep looking out for her. She's nice. Unlike you." He added, generously, "Although thanks for not trying to stab me in the face. I do appreciate that."
He was being genuine about that, too. He had a knife, Sherlock had a spear. Sherlock definitely had the advantage if he'd been feeling inclined towards violence.
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"You know, we were having a Moment there and you killed it. You're a Moment murderer," he said wryly to the man. "I can tell already, you're a ruiner. You are a ruiner of things."
But then it registered that Sherlock suggested he and Joan go back to camp and the expression faded away.
That was familiar. After his years alone, when he'd come across groups of people now and again, they'd sometimes talked, traded a bit, shared some stories, but then they'd always made it clear they were going to move on - or that he should. He was an extra mouth to potentially feed, a stranger, someone wandering unattached through life and they had no way of knowing why.
He'd never blamed them. After all, if someone wandered alone without a family or tribe, there was always the possibility that they'd been kicked out of one for some reason, that they couldn't be trusted. Maybe if he'd been younger when running across those people they'd have taken him in, but he'd been in his teens by then. An adult.
It hadn't bothered him for a long time. Right now, for some reason, it did just a little, but then maybe that was because after finding his new family, he thought he'd never again get any subtle hints to be on his way.
But it was fair and he didn't know if he could trust them, either.
"Thank you," he said to Joan, after a moment. "For being kind. And helping me calm down. And, uh, for not trying to beat me in the head with a rock since that was always a distinct possibility."
He smiled a small smile. It faded as he wondered if her tendency to talk rather than beat people with rocks would affect her chances of survival. He hoped not. At least she had territorial menacingly tall friends who seemed protective of her, apparently.
"You said you didn't want them to change the person you are. Good luck with that." It was clear he was being genuine. He added, vaguely, his eyes distant, looking thoughtful but not sad, "That's a fight that can be a little hard-won, not changing when things are hard, but it's always possible."
He shrugged slightly. "Just...trust me on that. I hope you manage it."
Then he turned to Sherlock. "And you, oh Gargantuan one, keep looking out for her. She's nice. Unlike you." He added, generously, "Although thanks for not trying to stab me in the face. I do appreciate that."
He was being genuine about that, too. He had a knife, Sherlock had a spear. Sherlock definitely had the advantage if he'd been feeling inclined towards violence.