sʜeʀʟᴏᴄk ʜᴏʟᴍes ✍ 002▸023 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saidhe) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ataraxionlogs2012-05-14 05:06 pm
saidhe) wrote in ataraxionlogs2012-05-14 05:06 pm
Entry tags:
Light eats night and all I never said
CHARACTERS: Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler
LOCATION: the Oxygen Garden
WARNINGS: Disturbing imagery? Some drug use. Holmes without a shower.
SUMMARY: The shiteth hath hitteth the fan. Eth.
NOTES: --
He's glad it had never occurred to him that it might have been whatever was in the cannabis, because that would have meant his mind had really gone to the dogs - what a silly thought, what an insane thought, when something had gone so similarly for so long, and to assume in one single flourish that the constant was the cause of the change.
The problem here is that he's not sure what's worse, when it hits. There are these violent changes between one from the other, and each is equally- equally-
At first there is everything. There are piano notes laced on top of shoe sizes and tobacco types, there are different types of fabric threading piled onto stovepipe hats and the memory of lavender, numbers and equations spark up like fireworks, and each flash and bang makes him flinch too much, with every different blade of grass here that he can see that he can see and he can tell the shades of green from the shades of aquamarine and it's about then when his pipe falls from his fingers, when there's the knowledge of how to properly tie a bowtie that slams violently into the sight of a cracked in skull (it's Watson's, John's, he's sure), and blood and crimson start to glaze all over his thoughts like a cake, with limbs bursting through and letters and alphabets he's not even sure exists and, oh, eight is a perfect cube while nine is a perfect square and that's lovely, that's just so very exquisite, he marvels, until a tiger swallows the words whole and lounges across his fireplace as though it's always meant to be something charred and ruined and inflamed and then
There's nothing.
There's nothing, there's not the hint of word, there's not the hint of a thought. There's this shell of a Sherlock Holmes, there's this empty- fucking- thing. And for a long moment he doesn't move. There's a scream in the distance and he flinches, but he doesn't stand, he doesn't budge, he doesn't lift from his place and bother to walk down a hall, to leave what is clearly the source of all of this. Because there is nothing.
There is nothing.
And Holmes breathes in deep the fear toxin out of an absolute apathy to do anything but let himself fester.
LOCATION: the Oxygen Garden
WARNINGS: Disturbing imagery? Some drug use. Holmes without a shower.
SUMMARY: The shiteth hath hitteth the fan. Eth.
NOTES: --
He's glad it had never occurred to him that it might have been whatever was in the cannabis, because that would have meant his mind had really gone to the dogs - what a silly thought, what an insane thought, when something had gone so similarly for so long, and to assume in one single flourish that the constant was the cause of the change.
The problem here is that he's not sure what's worse, when it hits. There are these violent changes between one from the other, and each is equally- equally-
At first there is everything. There are piano notes laced on top of shoe sizes and tobacco types, there are different types of fabric threading piled onto stovepipe hats and the memory of lavender, numbers and equations spark up like fireworks, and each flash and bang makes him flinch too much, with every different blade of grass here that he can see that he can see and he can tell the shades of green from the shades of aquamarine and it's about then when his pipe falls from his fingers, when there's the knowledge of how to properly tie a bowtie that slams violently into the sight of a cracked in skull (it's Watson's, John's, he's sure), and blood and crimson start to glaze all over his thoughts like a cake, with limbs bursting through and letters and alphabets he's not even sure exists and, oh, eight is a perfect cube while nine is a perfect square and that's lovely, that's just so very exquisite, he marvels, until a tiger swallows the words whole and lounges across his fireplace as though it's always meant to be something charred and ruined and inflamed and then
There's nothing.
There's nothing, there's not the hint of word, there's not the hint of a thought. There's this shell of a Sherlock Holmes, there's this empty- fucking- thing. And for a long moment he doesn't move. There's a scream in the distance and he flinches, but he doesn't stand, he doesn't budge, he doesn't lift from his place and bother to walk down a hall, to leave what is clearly the source of all of this. Because there is nothing.
There is nothing.
And Holmes breathes in deep the fear toxin out of an absolute apathy to do anything but let himself fester.