Post by philosopher on Sept 26, 2010 18:52:24 GMT -5
So much forced liveliness took proper place as only accessory to that of Holmes' face, upon his forehead the painful pattern still deepened. With the little power and force he had in him, he went strength after strength to keep up with Winston. Weaving between people walking the street, turning sharp corners and running new little shadows on the pavements as and when the pursuit called for. An iron will was fine accompaniment to a quick, cutting step.
The bugger was fast though, they was barely getting close to him. Striding out of a cross-street and, turning at the corner, burst into a residential back garden. Visibly, Holmes pushed his gait to shorten the time of his approach, and, as he did the pain just got worse, no motive could be ascribed to him other than to overtake and capture Winston. His breath became quick and irregular as determination beset him. The pain had originally been a thin little pull in Holmes' chest, easily ignored, but given time it became harder and harder to endure. Once like a frail, tugging wire now a pair of scissors repeatedly being plunged.
Admittedly, he nearly lost Winston through the shrubbery though he did not view the ruin with complaisance. He caught him running within the space of the block, no sooner striking out after him once again. That was dogged blood; getting hotter by the second - his face burning and shining with cold sweat. A sickness churning in his stomach and that almighty physical weariness slowing him down as resulted from the horribly strenuous effort, then, so suddenly;
'Arghh!'
It was the worst sensation yet to be described, and it managed to stop him dead away. Having passed into that awful gulf, he found he could not stand for long - cowering under the worst moment of it on the brink before collapsing onto his back. He clutched his chest, uttering cries of pain. It was the cold hand of death, rapping up through his body slowly and torturously. Holmes had never dreaded death itself, but he had dreaded intensely the thought of lingering illness, and its advancing horrors.
The bugger was fast though, they was barely getting close to him. Striding out of a cross-street and, turning at the corner, burst into a residential back garden. Visibly, Holmes pushed his gait to shorten the time of his approach, and, as he did the pain just got worse, no motive could be ascribed to him other than to overtake and capture Winston. His breath became quick and irregular as determination beset him. The pain had originally been a thin little pull in Holmes' chest, easily ignored, but given time it became harder and harder to endure. Once like a frail, tugging wire now a pair of scissors repeatedly being plunged.
Admittedly, he nearly lost Winston through the shrubbery though he did not view the ruin with complaisance. He caught him running within the space of the block, no sooner striking out after him once again. That was dogged blood; getting hotter by the second - his face burning and shining with cold sweat. A sickness churning in his stomach and that almighty physical weariness slowing him down as resulted from the horribly strenuous effort, then, so suddenly;
'Arghh!'
It was the worst sensation yet to be described, and it managed to stop him dead away. Having passed into that awful gulf, he found he could not stand for long - cowering under the worst moment of it on the brink before collapsing onto his back. He clutched his chest, uttering cries of pain. It was the cold hand of death, rapping up through his body slowly and torturously. Holmes had never dreaded death itself, but he had dreaded intensely the thought of lingering illness, and its advancing horrors.
Correct me lol)
