Post by SHERLOCK HOLMES on Jan 7, 2012 15:56:22 GMT -5
For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes was puzzled.
If related to a particularly out-of-the-ordinary-case (perhaps one involving James, as the detective's attention was focused on his activities for the majority of his time nowadays), Holmes' mood wouldn't be particularly out-of-the-ordinary. But the unusual situation's complexity was undoubtedly enhanced by the fact that the thing puzzling him was a very unexpected one.
It was himself, surprisingly enough.
It was an attempt to clear his head.
At least, that was what the boy had been telling himself for the past twelve minutes. And in all fairness, what he had been telling himself was, in some aspects, the truth. After all, lying to oneself was not a particularly good strategy, as he knew from personal experience.
Streets and long roads stretched out on the Earth below, joining with a ragged seam to the pink-tinted sky. It would be beautiful, if it weren't for the horrifyingly ugly face of nature lying just below the surface - a face seen by rare few, but known by all. And even if it weren't for the lurking disfigurement, Sherlock wasn't paying attention enough to notice the dazzling view. His attention was grasped in needy hands by the distance he was from the rest of reality.
The rooftop was like a different universe. Which, if in a lucid moment, he would immediately shun the thought of. His internal theories about other universes were ridiculous, and to be kept secret at all times. But the sheer feeling of being so separate to life in the city underneath (combined, of course, with being so separate from a 'right state of mind' at that particular moment) was enough to cause him to temporarily forget (or not bother with) his own opinions.
It was a long way down. He wasn't sure quite how far, as every so often Sherlock was struck with a flash of hazy vision, a dizzy head and the impulse to jump. So far, merely the want to finish an internal stream of thoughts was the only thing that had stopped him from succumbing to such urge.
But it was definitely a long way down. It could even be miles; he wasn't too sure. And the roof of the towering, towering building didn't seem to have any knowledge of safety precautions. For the only thing separating flat surface from plummeting fall was the foot-high stretch of wall that Holmes was stood on. He was swaying slightly - as if the slight breeze that was only strong enough to lightly ruffle the curls of his hair was going to shove him forcefully over the edge at any moment.
If it did, he wouldn't mind too much. After all, it wouldn't be much of a loss.
If he were to ponder on it, the roof didn't really need to take safety precautions this close to the edge, anyway. Sherlock had been forced to face a two-and-a-bit metre leap and a very difficult fence to reach that spot - so it was hardly expected for somebody to have gotten that far.
But he had, and for that the boy felt he should feel if just a little proud.
Once, he had wondered if there was something wrong with him. But that theory had promptly vanished from his head after around twenty-one seconds after appearing, when up popped a news report concerning the details of a nearby double homicide. He had only been around six at the time, but was greatly interested in such events - and the report had ended with the child jumping over furniture and screaming at the television as if in attempt to make the people hear his deductions. They had been wrong, of course, and an innocent man had suffered for no reason.
This hadn't bothered the boy, truthfully. But what had, was how idiotic and useless the police were.
Since then, he had rarely touched upon the subject of his oddity again, believing it to be simply a matter of 'nobody else's business' - even going so far until he, too, thought that.
Sherlock's eyes drifted to glowing in the distance - an array of colours illuminating the darkening sky with almost unbearable ease. It was an attempt to clear his head, and so cutting off the steady string of thought fluttering around like a distressed butterfly was necessary right at that moment.
If you close your eyes, you see darkness.
He closed his eyes.
But if you keep them closed for long enough, and concentrate hard, you see light.
He had tried it before, and it didn't work. Which could be expected. But what couldn't, was the boy's reaction. Perhaps he was just disappointed that one irrational thing he had believed in for a brief moment had shattered so easily when he found it to be false.
Light didn't come this time, either.
Which was slightly unfortunate, as Holmes had already decided what measures were to be taken if that happened.
It was the only logical explanation.
Or at least, the only one he could think of.
As he stood there, his world spinning around him and the city twinkling like fireflies beneath his feet, Sherlock Holmes could swear that he felt infinite.
So he jumped.
It had been the first time in his life that he wasn't successful.
The first time, he had been sixteen years old. Nobody was quite sure what had persuaded the man to do such a thing - he certainly didn't seem like the type to want to do it. No, Sherlock was far too proud of himself for that.
Or maybe it just showed that nobody was quite sure who, exactly, he was.
Being 'not in his right mind', Holmes had misjudged the distance between the roof and the ground, and had escaped with quite a few painful physical injuries, but otherwise alive. At the time, the boy had deemed it not fortunate, obviously.
It had been the first time in his life that he wasn't successful.
And, years later, Sherlock would come to realize that he didn't regret that.
If related to a particularly out-of-the-ordinary-case (perhaps one involving James, as the detective's attention was focused on his activities for the majority of his time nowadays), Holmes' mood wouldn't be particularly out-of-the-ordinary. But the unusual situation's complexity was undoubtedly enhanced by the fact that the thing puzzling him was a very unexpected one.
It was himself, surprisingly enough.
Somewhere above London.
It was an attempt to clear his head.
At least, that was what the boy had been telling himself for the past twelve minutes. And in all fairness, what he had been telling himself was, in some aspects, the truth. After all, lying to oneself was not a particularly good strategy, as he knew from personal experience.
Streets and long roads stretched out on the Earth below, joining with a ragged seam to the pink-tinted sky. It would be beautiful, if it weren't for the horrifyingly ugly face of nature lying just below the surface - a face seen by rare few, but known by all. And even if it weren't for the lurking disfigurement, Sherlock wasn't paying attention enough to notice the dazzling view. His attention was grasped in needy hands by the distance he was from the rest of reality.
The rooftop was like a different universe. Which, if in a lucid moment, he would immediately shun the thought of. His internal theories about other universes were ridiculous, and to be kept secret at all times. But the sheer feeling of being so separate to life in the city underneath (combined, of course, with being so separate from a 'right state of mind' at that particular moment) was enough to cause him to temporarily forget (or not bother with) his own opinions.
It was a long way down. He wasn't sure quite how far, as every so often Sherlock was struck with a flash of hazy vision, a dizzy head and the impulse to jump. So far, merely the want to finish an internal stream of thoughts was the only thing that had stopped him from succumbing to such urge.
But it was definitely a long way down. It could even be miles; he wasn't too sure. And the roof of the towering, towering building didn't seem to have any knowledge of safety precautions. For the only thing separating flat surface from plummeting fall was the foot-high stretch of wall that Holmes was stood on. He was swaying slightly - as if the slight breeze that was only strong enough to lightly ruffle the curls of his hair was going to shove him forcefully over the edge at any moment.
If it did, he wouldn't mind too much. After all, it wouldn't be much of a loss.
If he were to ponder on it, the roof didn't really need to take safety precautions this close to the edge, anyway. Sherlock had been forced to face a two-and-a-bit metre leap and a very difficult fence to reach that spot - so it was hardly expected for somebody to have gotten that far.
But he had, and for that the boy felt he should feel if just a little proud.
Once, he had wondered if there was something wrong with him. But that theory had promptly vanished from his head after around twenty-one seconds after appearing, when up popped a news report concerning the details of a nearby double homicide. He had only been around six at the time, but was greatly interested in such events - and the report had ended with the child jumping over furniture and screaming at the television as if in attempt to make the people hear his deductions. They had been wrong, of course, and an innocent man had suffered for no reason.
This hadn't bothered the boy, truthfully. But what had, was how idiotic and useless the police were.
Since then, he had rarely touched upon the subject of his oddity again, believing it to be simply a matter of 'nobody else's business' - even going so far until he, too, thought that.
Sherlock's eyes drifted to glowing in the distance - an array of colours illuminating the darkening sky with almost unbearable ease. It was an attempt to clear his head, and so cutting off the steady string of thought fluttering around like a distressed butterfly was necessary right at that moment.
If you close your eyes, you see darkness.
He closed his eyes.
But if you keep them closed for long enough, and concentrate hard, you see light.
He had tried it before, and it didn't work. Which could be expected. But what couldn't, was the boy's reaction. Perhaps he was just disappointed that one irrational thing he had believed in for a brief moment had shattered so easily when he found it to be false.
Light didn't come this time, either.
Which was slightly unfortunate, as Holmes had already decided what measures were to be taken if that happened.
It was the only logical explanation.
Or at least, the only one he could think of.
As he stood there, his world spinning around him and the city twinkling like fireflies beneath his feet, Sherlock Holmes could swear that he felt infinite.
So he jumped.
It had been the first time in his life that he wasn't successful.
The first time, he had been sixteen years old. Nobody was quite sure what had persuaded the man to do such a thing - he certainly didn't seem like the type to want to do it. No, Sherlock was far too proud of himself for that.
Or maybe it just showed that nobody was quite sure who, exactly, he was.
Being 'not in his right mind', Holmes had misjudged the distance between the roof and the ground, and had escaped with quite a few painful physical injuries, but otherwise alive. At the time, the boy had deemed it not fortunate, obviously.
It had been the first time in his life that he wasn't successful.
And, years later, Sherlock would come to realize that he didn't regret that.
