Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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thoughtformed2014-05-17 11:55 pm
worldsonly) wrote in thoughtformed2014-05-17 11:55 pm
Entry tags:
closed log!
Who: Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler
What: "John Watson has been released."
Where: this GODFORSAKEN ISLAND
When: post-pokemon
Warnings: ?? drug/suicide references probs
There's an unforgivably long period of inactivity, between the point when Sherlock realizes what's happened and the point when he reacts to it. He couldn't possibly guess how long, exactly, because he simply stops existing, but the shadows on the wall go from being cast by the sun to being cast by streetlamps between one blink and the next, so Sherlock assumes it's been at least a few minutes. His experiment is ruined now, one that needed constant observation, and the contents of the test tube in his hand have settled from cloudy and opaque to layered, fine sediment resting on the bottom.
Within the space of a moment Sherlock bursts into movement, flings the test tube at the wall, the glass exploding into a shower of shards and viscous liquid, and Sherlock surveys the damage with wide eyes, chest heaving, feeling --
nothing.
Sherlock feels nothing. It's a loud nothing, a very present nothing, a yawning chasm of nothing, but it neither increases nor wanes with the destruction. He could break everything in the flat and it wouldn't even provide him the catharsis of fury.
His brother wouldn't even call this a "danger night," wouldn't bother with underhandedly trying to work out the state of Sherlock's emotions. Mycroft would have him handcuffed to a chair within the hour, contained and with constant surveillance, no fuss and no hesitation. But Sherlock doesn't have to worry about that. Doesn't have to worry Mycroft's disappointment, about John's anger, Lestrade's concern, Mummy's tears. He's perfectly free to do anything he likes to fill this void.
Time suddenly seems warped and inconsistent, his surroundings blurred, indistinct. Sherlock doesn't realize he's walked from the apartment, even as he nearly collides nose-first with a front door. He barely feels his own arm move, and the sound of his knock is distant and muffled, like the vibrations are traveling through treacle.
When the door opens, Sherlock finds his mouth opening, his tongue shaping sounds, and they reach his ears sounding hollow and brittle, sounding like, "I'm going to do something stupid."
What: "John Watson has been released."
Where: this GODFORSAKEN ISLAND
When: post-pokemon
Warnings: ?? drug/suicide references probs
There's an unforgivably long period of inactivity, between the point when Sherlock realizes what's happened and the point when he reacts to it. He couldn't possibly guess how long, exactly, because he simply stops existing, but the shadows on the wall go from being cast by the sun to being cast by streetlamps between one blink and the next, so Sherlock assumes it's been at least a few minutes. His experiment is ruined now, one that needed constant observation, and the contents of the test tube in his hand have settled from cloudy and opaque to layered, fine sediment resting on the bottom.
Within the space of a moment Sherlock bursts into movement, flings the test tube at the wall, the glass exploding into a shower of shards and viscous liquid, and Sherlock surveys the damage with wide eyes, chest heaving, feeling --
nothing.
Sherlock feels nothing. It's a loud nothing, a very present nothing, a yawning chasm of nothing, but it neither increases nor wanes with the destruction. He could break everything in the flat and it wouldn't even provide him the catharsis of fury.
His brother wouldn't even call this a "danger night," wouldn't bother with underhandedly trying to work out the state of Sherlock's emotions. Mycroft would have him handcuffed to a chair within the hour, contained and with constant surveillance, no fuss and no hesitation. But Sherlock doesn't have to worry about that. Doesn't have to worry Mycroft's disappointment, about John's anger, Lestrade's concern, Mummy's tears. He's perfectly free to do anything he likes to fill this void.
Time suddenly seems warped and inconsistent, his surroundings blurred, indistinct. Sherlock doesn't realize he's walked from the apartment, even as he nearly collides nose-first with a front door. He barely feels his own arm move, and the sound of his knock is distant and muffled, like the vibrations are traveling through treacle.
When the door opens, Sherlock finds his mouth opening, his tongue shaping sounds, and they reach his ears sounding hollow and brittle, sounding like, "I'm going to do something stupid."