[Nope, the heat doesn't bother him! Sherlock is also cheerier: he's left the events of April behind entirely, and all that matters is the game, the match.
The humans have started to divide the bout into rounds: there's a bell, now, and ninety-seconds-on-thirty-seconds-off.
Eventually, though, Sherlock will start to lag: he's put up a very good fight and kept it up with speed and harrying blows, but he's no simulacrum, he can't go forever. His reaction speed slows, and his hands grow heavy -- eventually, as the bell rings, he cries:]
Hold! Enough!
[There's sweat soaking his shirt, streaming down his brow, not from the heat but the exertion.]
no subject
The humans have started to divide the bout into rounds: there's a bell, now, and ninety-seconds-on-thirty-seconds-off.
Eventually, though, Sherlock will start to lag: he's put up a very good fight and kept it up with speed and harrying blows, but he's no simulacrum, he can't go forever. His reaction speed slows, and his hands grow heavy -- eventually, as the bell rings, he cries:]
Hold! Enough!
[There's sweat soaking his shirt, streaming down his brow, not from the heat but the exertion.]