The glorious days where men were able to bring home their fat paychecks to spend on their families, proud of their hard work and eagerly anticipating the meal their lovely wife had painstakingly crafted, those were not the evenings that belonged to young Mister Holmes. His time was spent musing over what he would do with his days and nights, what career choices he should consider, what degrees should he look at, whether he should simply be the good son. That seemed to be the question of the week, really: Should Blake surrender to the pressure from his family to do well and just follow their lead or should he say "Fuck it" and do what he wanted to do with his life? Of course, that second part was a double-hitter because he didn't even know what he wanted to do with his fucking life. He was just so goddamn lost.

So, being the responsible adult that Mister Holmes was, Blake hit the bars in the desperation to drown his desperation. What a slippery slope to a terrible hangover and alcoholism that was, wasn't it? Shush though, that wasn't rumoring the grapevine, not yet at least. Maybe give it a few months without a positive outlet for him, then maybe it would happen. It wasn't like he would be the first Holmes man with a nasty little pocket habit, not even the first brother to have it. Vice ran rampant in his family, despite their dead set to do right in life. However, fear not, his worst habit was the pipe he inherited from his grandfather that he only smoked occasionally. Cigarettes were too expensive to keep the habit up and, though is family had money, Blake was strapped in the wallet department so he had to keep costs down somewhere. Cigarettes or booze and, well, no one likes a parched throat.

Of course, the whole sparing his wallet was being blown to all seven hells and heavens and then purgatory drinking here at this bar. He couldn't even call it overpriced though, the drinks were top-notch excellence. He was currently nursing a double scotch, neat, because he liked to drink older than his age. It was while enjoying his second beverage that he felt a small but strong... flick? It was too light to truly be a hit but he wasn't sure what to call that feeling. He set the glass down on the bar, turning to look around behind him for the source of the not-hit, unsure what to expect. Strange, there was no one immediately behind him yet there seemed a woman looking incredibly guilty for something. He watched her over his shoulder as she shuffled some card layout into a deck before his gaze dropped to the floor as he made to turn back around. Except, what's this? A rather grisly etch-a-sketch of a man on the floor. Blake slid off his stool to stoop down and pick up the card, having to pry up a corner with his nail stub to get any hold on it. His brow furrowed slightly as he looked at the card, one of those tarot things, before his attention shifted toward the guilty woman again. He nicked his glass off the counter as he turned to approach her table, holding the card between his forefinger and middle up to where she could see her beloved hanged man.

"I'm going to go on a crazy guess that this fellow belongs with the others stacked in front of you." Blake commented, gesturing with the card toward her deck, before he pressed it on the table top and slid it toward her. "I don't know much about the tarot cards, really nothing at all, but I'm hoping him jumping out to attack my head doesn't mean someone has it out for me." He tacked on as he slid into the chair across from her, electing to harass his attacker. After all, it was only fair. He did bring her back her skeleton-hanging man-card-thing.