Post by SHERLOCK HOLMES on Dec 26, 2011 12:06:07 GMT -5
'Christmas day'.
It is a widely celebrated occasion, one that is well-known to spread messages of good-will and cheer through mankind.
Personally, Sherlock had never seen the point.
It is just another day, really. And if one was to delve into the specifics of the supposed reason for celebration, one could argue that the birth of Christ was actually an event that took place much later on in the year - not on the commonly recognised date toward the end of December. 'Christmas' is a time for wasting energy and thoughts on pointless gifts, a time for ridiculous deeds (decorating - in a truly preposterous fashion - an indoor tree, as one example), a time for irrational happiness.
When thought about with a level head, there really isn't at all any point.
This was not the only reason that Sherlock Holmes was spending the twenty-fifth of December in his own, lonely little head - but it was good enough to be thought as so. If truth be told, the other causes of his self-imposed exile consisted of thoughts and opinions that the man himself would never seem to realise he even possessed. Holmes had long ago learnt to ignore and cross out anything that wouldn't be of use to his profession - resulting in his pure obliviousness of almost anything considered to be human.
He would be happy if he could be left on his own during the 'festive' season. But it seemed that the joy man experienced during the winter holidays was far too important not to be blatantly shared with the rest of existence. Thus, 'Christmas' was never quiet.
Sherlock was a rather sensitive being as it was. He could pick up information about strangers as easily as another man could see colours. People passing in the street would seem to sing their life stories. They would emit a unique tune that the detective was able to decipher in order to learn everything about that particular person. It was easy - to him. Facts and figures were just a constant hum in his head - never being quiet and always, always reminding him of their never-ceasing presence. It was simply a fact of life, and one that he had seemed to always live with. He was often puzzled, in fact, by the obvious ignorance everybody else seemed to have in picking up the sounds. And Holmes would never know why other people didn't care.
It's such a shame you can't ignore the ignorant.
But he was also fragile. And fragile things can easily shatter into a thousand, irreparable pieces.
The world never seemed to be quiet anyway, but 'Christmas' just appeared to cause every sound to be louder - sharper. 'Christmas' worked, in Sherlock's mind, like the common spyglass - or a microscope, a megaphone or a magnifying glass. It was a way of unintentionally intensifying simply everything.
Holmes couldn't bear 'Christmas'.
Squeezing his eyes firmly shut, the man struggled to set his over-worked brain to work on anything other than it's current thought. Facts, facts, facts...
Christmas time in 1914 was one that not many people would expect. The First World War was one of obvious misery - yet late December on the Western Front turned into somewhat of a miracle.
There happened a 'Christmas Truce'. A ceasefire. Both German and British soldiers wandered in to 'No Man's Land', swapped gifts food and personal items. It even ventured to the point where the men where taking part in joyous games of football. A 'Christmas miracle', is quite possibly the appropriate phrase. Violence and brutality was stopped. There was no fighting, because it was 'Christmas'.
Many people think of the truce around Christmas time. It was a moment of peace - a display of humanity in what was otherwise a raw and primal time of unnecessary violence.
The event didn't really make any sense. The men had stopped fighting, stopped being soldiers and doing their duty for a short while.
They had been out, face to face with the enemy.
They had met the men they were going to kill the next day.
And Sherlock was fascinated by it.
Despite his loathing for anything else related to 'Christmas' (apart from the snow, of course - he never did mind the weather), the Christmas truce of 1914 really was the only exception.
But even thoughts of this weren't enough to bring Holmes out of his relentless mood.
Christmas was pointless, and noisy, and painful.
And that was that.
Sherlock's head hit the floorboards with a dull thud as he fell to the ground. Originally the man had been intending to make it at least to the couch in his flat, but he simply didn't have the effort or willpower to stay upright any longer - and so collapsed in an oddly graceful manner in the middle of the room. Despite his lack of a coat, the sharp chill of the Winter air didn't seem to bother the lithe figure now curled up and resembling a gangly hedgehog in the dark shadows of the flat.
Everything he did seemed to be growing so tiresome. So monotonous, so horribly tedious.
And he couldn't be bothered with it anymore.
Sherlock Holmes would wait there until it was over. Until the first few weeks of January, at least. Until the noises quietened down. Until Christmas was finished, and the man could think again.
And then next year it would be the same.
It is a widely celebrated occasion, one that is well-known to spread messages of good-will and cheer through mankind.
Personally, Sherlock had never seen the point.
It is just another day, really. And if one was to delve into the specifics of the supposed reason for celebration, one could argue that the birth of Christ was actually an event that took place much later on in the year - not on the commonly recognised date toward the end of December. 'Christmas' is a time for wasting energy and thoughts on pointless gifts, a time for ridiculous deeds (decorating - in a truly preposterous fashion - an indoor tree, as one example), a time for irrational happiness.
When thought about with a level head, there really isn't at all any point.
This was not the only reason that Sherlock Holmes was spending the twenty-fifth of December in his own, lonely little head - but it was good enough to be thought as so. If truth be told, the other causes of his self-imposed exile consisted of thoughts and opinions that the man himself would never seem to realise he even possessed. Holmes had long ago learnt to ignore and cross out anything that wouldn't be of use to his profession - resulting in his pure obliviousness of almost anything considered to be human.
He would be happy if he could be left on his own during the 'festive' season. But it seemed that the joy man experienced during the winter holidays was far too important not to be blatantly shared with the rest of existence. Thus, 'Christmas' was never quiet.
Sherlock was a rather sensitive being as it was. He could pick up information about strangers as easily as another man could see colours. People passing in the street would seem to sing their life stories. They would emit a unique tune that the detective was able to decipher in order to learn everything about that particular person. It was easy - to him. Facts and figures were just a constant hum in his head - never being quiet and always, always reminding him of their never-ceasing presence. It was simply a fact of life, and one that he had seemed to always live with. He was often puzzled, in fact, by the obvious ignorance everybody else seemed to have in picking up the sounds. And Holmes would never know why other people didn't care.
It's such a shame you can't ignore the ignorant.
But he was also fragile. And fragile things can easily shatter into a thousand, irreparable pieces.
The world never seemed to be quiet anyway, but 'Christmas' just appeared to cause every sound to be louder - sharper. 'Christmas' worked, in Sherlock's mind, like the common spyglass - or a microscope, a megaphone or a magnifying glass. It was a way of unintentionally intensifying simply everything.
Holmes couldn't bear 'Christmas'.
Squeezing his eyes firmly shut, the man struggled to set his over-worked brain to work on anything other than it's current thought. Facts, facts, facts...
Christmas time in 1914 was one that not many people would expect. The First World War was one of obvious misery - yet late December on the Western Front turned into somewhat of a miracle.
There happened a 'Christmas Truce'. A ceasefire. Both German and British soldiers wandered in to 'No Man's Land', swapped gifts food and personal items. It even ventured to the point where the men where taking part in joyous games of football. A 'Christmas miracle', is quite possibly the appropriate phrase. Violence and brutality was stopped. There was no fighting, because it was 'Christmas'.
Many people think of the truce around Christmas time. It was a moment of peace - a display of humanity in what was otherwise a raw and primal time of unnecessary violence.
The event didn't really make any sense. The men had stopped fighting, stopped being soldiers and doing their duty for a short while.
They had been out, face to face with the enemy.
They had met the men they were going to kill the next day.
And Sherlock was fascinated by it.
Despite his loathing for anything else related to 'Christmas' (apart from the snow, of course - he never did mind the weather), the Christmas truce of 1914 really was the only exception.
But even thoughts of this weren't enough to bring Holmes out of his relentless mood.
Christmas was pointless, and noisy, and painful.
And that was that.
Sherlock's head hit the floorboards with a dull thud as he fell to the ground. Originally the man had been intending to make it at least to the couch in his flat, but he simply didn't have the effort or willpower to stay upright any longer - and so collapsed in an oddly graceful manner in the middle of the room. Despite his lack of a coat, the sharp chill of the Winter air didn't seem to bother the lithe figure now curled up and resembling a gangly hedgehog in the dark shadows of the flat.
Everything he did seemed to be growing so tiresome. So monotonous, so horribly tedious.
And he couldn't be bothered with it anymore.
Sherlock Holmes would wait there until it was over. Until the first few weeks of January, at least. Until the noises quietened down. Until Christmas was finished, and the man could think again.
And then next year it would be the same.
