[A few minutes after sunset, a man who clearly is Sherlock Holmes's corpse makes his way to the apartment reeided in by Jonathan Joestar. He's got a high-collaree coat on against the chill, for all it does.]
Hello, Joestar.
[His fangs don't look that much different. Really, it's the pallor, and the absence of other feline features, that is where the difference lies. That, and -- he sniffs, once, more in surprise than anything. That's all it takes to confirm it.
The hunger it pulls from him isn't a human hunger, not the normal kind. Holmes isn't sure how he'd describe it. Something like thirst, and something like the painful sort of solitude.
no subject
Hello, Joestar.
[His fangs don't look that much different. Really, it's the pallor, and the absence of other feline features, that is where the difference lies. That, and -- he sniffs, once, more in surprise than anything. That's all it takes to confirm it.
The hunger it pulls from him isn't a human hunger, not the normal kind. Holmes isn't sure how he'd describe it. Something like thirst, and something like the painful sort of solitude.
His pupils are fully black.]