Sherlock stopped walking and pressed his fingers against his temple, looking somewhat troubled.
Iver immediately sensed this. He stopped as well and turned around. "Are you all right, Sherlock?"
"I'm fine."
Sherlock's voice was cold. "I think it's because this body is too short... For the same distance, you can walk briskly, but I have to jog to keep up. It's a little tiring... I can feel the blood vessels in my forehead throbbing."
Iver smiled at that.
But instead of saying something caring like, "Then I'll slow down," he merely remarked, "You might be thirsty. We haven't had much water all afternoon, after all."
With that, he took a flask from his robes and tossed it to Sherlock.
Dressed like a newspaper boy, Sherlock caught the flask and unceremoniously poured it into his mouth.
Then he spat it out immediately.
"...Are you insane?"
As Iver burst into laughter at the success of his prank, Sherlock angrily screwed the cap of the "flask" back on. "I'm only thirteen or fourteen years old right now, and you gave me alcohol?"
And strong liquor, at that.
Sherlock could tell from a single sip that it was Theocracy Whiskey, over forty proof.
The amber liquor carried a distinctive, rich roasted aroma, like fried barley. At the same time, it had a faint fruity sweetness, leaving a lingering fragrance on the lips and teeth after one swallow.
But Sherlock had a relatively low tolerance for alcohol. He usually had to dilute it with water before he could drink it—or he could mix it with lemon juice and honey water.
Iver merely took the bottle back at his leisure and handed Sherlock another flask that looked almost identical. "I never told you this one contained water."
"I trusted you!"
"Oh, please. You only let your