Post by SHERLOCK HOLMES on Jan 30, 2012 18:30:40 GMT -5
He had been told not to try it again.
Perhaps it was for this reason that the second attempt could be considered somewhat unintentional - or at least less so than any others he had tried over the years. Perhaps it could be down to the simple fact that Sherlock often did things just to be contradictive of what he had been told. Perhaps he did the opposite just to make a point.
But there was, of course, still the possibility that he simply wanted to. He did have his own reasons, after all.
In the end, all he really did was...
When considering the many other ways he could have chosen to achieve the same result, this really was surprisingly easy.
If it was to be summed up in a nice, little, easy-to-manage package, what he was in fact doing was absolutely nothing. And never before - not when mumbled by a shifty swine with something to hide, or even by a lazy, good-for-nothing couch potato - had the words been closer to reality than what they were when describing the man's actions. Because he really was doing completely, truly, and utterly nothing.
If you were to see it, it could possibly be a little unnerving.
Sherlock, unsurprisingly, hadn't felt the will to move for a while now. And in all truth, it had grown to the point where he would be unsure whether or not he was actually able to move - should he even think about the matter.
As it happened, however, the man's mind remained focused on other thoughts.
Too many other thoughts for his liking, really. The whole point had been to stop such things...
His eyes drifted closed again, and Holmes found himself grateful to lose consciousness for a few hours.
It had never been a question as to what had driven him to it. Suicide wasn't, after all, a subject many people tended to freely discuss in everyday chit-chat, and so it hadn't really been asked directly to him - by someone else. Fragments of his uncontrollable subconscious (which he had long since decided really did need to be harnessed somehow, should this attempt unfortunately fail) often drifted to the front line of his brain and questioned the reasons rather abruptly. But they were easily ignored when Sherlock instead spent the time wrestling them far to the back once again. And by the time they would be locked away in darkness and forgotten once more, something distracting more often than not would occur to whisk away the man's attention.
And besides, being the second time, it was really just because he had given up.
Not something to be quickly admitted, mind. Holmes rarely gave up on anything - though he supposed that life, at least, was a suitable and excusable thing to finally do so with.
One finger twitched, as if trying to communicate with the outside world of its own accord, before dropping back down lifelessly as if nothing had ever happened. Maybe he would appear to be asleep, if someone was to come across him. Though it was a rather unusual place for one - even as eccentric as this 'Sherlock' character, who was said to regularly be found running across the rooftops and causing the most horrendous racket at ungodly hours, much to the displeasure of the neighbours - to fall asleep.
The figure was shrouded in darkness, and though the room was lit (however dimly so it may be), features would be hard to make out. Other than the fact that, every so often, the part of the shape that one could only assume to be a man's - or a beast's - chest would rise and fall softly, it really could be classed as a mindless lump of inanimate objects on the floor. On closer inspection, it could be easily supposed that the man was emitting the darkness and the shadows he was smothered by.
A curious thought.
In retrospect, it wasn't the most thought out of plans.
Sure enough the effect had been the desired one. Even now, Sherlock was able to sense and locate just a tiny shred of calm amongst the chaos. A sliver of silence, of peacefulness and quiet. A fragment of sense that he knew was produced by the fact that he was slowly, but surely, fading away.
But of course, that wasn't enough.
Nobody wanted a fragment of anything. Nobody wanted a tiny shred of possibility, a sliver of hope. Because, really, what was the point in just having a part of it? It wasn't enough, and it was this thought that spurred the man to attempt to resemble a plank of wood even more than he already was doing, by not even allowing his shallow breathing to provoke too much movement.
Darkness was greeted like an old friend.
It was perfect.
Currently suspended in a blissful world, hanging somewhere between the contrasting dimensions of consciousness and caliginosity, was located the fading mind of Sherlock Holmes.
Perfect in the sense that is was almost beautiful. For such quietness to be achieved only through lack of moving, refusal to eat or drink and an indecent level of pure uncaring was rather remarkable. A wonder, even, if appreciation could be taken so far for the man to dignify it with such a title.
Yet still, he wasn't quite there.
Fortunately, Holmes was currently loaded with patience to spare, and honestly didn't mind in the slightest if he just had to wait for a few more hours or so.
If only he just closed his eyes and...
... Slept.
It was never fair to be thrown back into the world of the living with as much vicious ferocity as he had been. What was even less reasonable was that he had been so temptingly close, only to have fate boast its hatefully badly timed loathing for Sherlock.
Because, at the last minute, the unexpected just had to happen.
After all, it simply wouldn't be his life (or more accurately, death) if such unfortunate events didn't occur.
The majority of the world's population thought wrongly of burglars. They, like any other rationally thinking human being on the entire wretched planet, had a reason for doing something every once in a while.
Perhaps that man was only a thief to gain something of theirs back. Maybe the person that woman is stealing from is a very bad man, and took the things that she is, in turn, taking possession of from somebody else. It could be that this diamond necklace in particular had been acquired unlawfully, and so its whereabouts to the former owner were really unnecessary.
Many people didn't take things like these into consideration. So it would be, to some, a shock that it happened to be a regular burglar that saved the life of a man one rainy night.
But, because life is unfair to those most unexpected, Holmes ended up pressing charges under attempting robbery in the first place. Nobody had to know that it was simply down to the fact that he despised the thief for interrupting in what was previously a working plan.
And so, nobody ever would.
The majority of the world's population's opinions on burglars didn't change.
And so went attempt number two. The only time Sherlock had shown evidence that he had given up, at some point in his life. For, after the second time he tried to achieve what he only ever wanted from a very young age, the reasons for similar actions never even brushed upon thoughts of a comparable nature.
And he became much more determined to playwright his own fate.
Perhaps it was for this reason that the second attempt could be considered somewhat unintentional - or at least less so than any others he had tried over the years. Perhaps it could be down to the simple fact that Sherlock often did things just to be contradictive of what he had been told. Perhaps he did the opposite just to make a point.
But there was, of course, still the possibility that he simply wanted to. He did have his own reasons, after all.
In the end, all he really did was...
When considering the many other ways he could have chosen to achieve the same result, this really was surprisingly easy.
If it was to be summed up in a nice, little, easy-to-manage package, what he was in fact doing was absolutely nothing. And never before - not when mumbled by a shifty swine with something to hide, or even by a lazy, good-for-nothing couch potato - had the words been closer to reality than what they were when describing the man's actions. Because he really was doing completely, truly, and utterly nothing.
If you were to see it, it could possibly be a little unnerving.
Sherlock, unsurprisingly, hadn't felt the will to move for a while now. And in all truth, it had grown to the point where he would be unsure whether or not he was actually able to move - should he even think about the matter.
As it happened, however, the man's mind remained focused on other thoughts.
Too many other thoughts for his liking, really. The whole point had been to stop such things...
His eyes drifted closed again, and Holmes found himself grateful to lose consciousness for a few hours.
It had never been a question as to what had driven him to it. Suicide wasn't, after all, a subject many people tended to freely discuss in everyday chit-chat, and so it hadn't really been asked directly to him - by someone else. Fragments of his uncontrollable subconscious (which he had long since decided really did need to be harnessed somehow, should this attempt unfortunately fail) often drifted to the front line of his brain and questioned the reasons rather abruptly. But they were easily ignored when Sherlock instead spent the time wrestling them far to the back once again. And by the time they would be locked away in darkness and forgotten once more, something distracting more often than not would occur to whisk away the man's attention.
And besides, being the second time, it was really just because he had given up.
Not something to be quickly admitted, mind. Holmes rarely gave up on anything - though he supposed that life, at least, was a suitable and excusable thing to finally do so with.
One finger twitched, as if trying to communicate with the outside world of its own accord, before dropping back down lifelessly as if nothing had ever happened. Maybe he would appear to be asleep, if someone was to come across him. Though it was a rather unusual place for one - even as eccentric as this 'Sherlock' character, who was said to regularly be found running across the rooftops and causing the most horrendous racket at ungodly hours, much to the displeasure of the neighbours - to fall asleep.
The figure was shrouded in darkness, and though the room was lit (however dimly so it may be), features would be hard to make out. Other than the fact that, every so often, the part of the shape that one could only assume to be a man's - or a beast's - chest would rise and fall softly, it really could be classed as a mindless lump of inanimate objects on the floor. On closer inspection, it could be easily supposed that the man was emitting the darkness and the shadows he was smothered by.
A curious thought.
In retrospect, it wasn't the most thought out of plans.
Sure enough the effect had been the desired one. Even now, Sherlock was able to sense and locate just a tiny shred of calm amongst the chaos. A sliver of silence, of peacefulness and quiet. A fragment of sense that he knew was produced by the fact that he was slowly, but surely, fading away.
But of course, that wasn't enough.
Nobody wanted a fragment of anything. Nobody wanted a tiny shred of possibility, a sliver of hope. Because, really, what was the point in just having a part of it? It wasn't enough, and it was this thought that spurred the man to attempt to resemble a plank of wood even more than he already was doing, by not even allowing his shallow breathing to provoke too much movement.
Darkness was greeted like an old friend.
It was perfect.
Currently suspended in a blissful world, hanging somewhere between the contrasting dimensions of consciousness and caliginosity, was located the fading mind of Sherlock Holmes.
Perfect in the sense that is was almost beautiful. For such quietness to be achieved only through lack of moving, refusal to eat or drink and an indecent level of pure uncaring was rather remarkable. A wonder, even, if appreciation could be taken so far for the man to dignify it with such a title.
Yet still, he wasn't quite there.
Fortunately, Holmes was currently loaded with patience to spare, and honestly didn't mind in the slightest if he just had to wait for a few more hours or so.
If only he just closed his eyes and...
... Slept.
It was never fair to be thrown back into the world of the living with as much vicious ferocity as he had been. What was even less reasonable was that he had been so temptingly close, only to have fate boast its hatefully badly timed loathing for Sherlock.
Because, at the last minute, the unexpected just had to happen.
After all, it simply wouldn't be his life (or more accurately, death) if such unfortunate events didn't occur.
The majority of the world's population thought wrongly of burglars. They, like any other rationally thinking human being on the entire wretched planet, had a reason for doing something every once in a while.
Perhaps that man was only a thief to gain something of theirs back. Maybe the person that woman is stealing from is a very bad man, and took the things that she is, in turn, taking possession of from somebody else. It could be that this diamond necklace in particular had been acquired unlawfully, and so its whereabouts to the former owner were really unnecessary.
Many people didn't take things like these into consideration. So it would be, to some, a shock that it happened to be a regular burglar that saved the life of a man one rainy night.
But, because life is unfair to those most unexpected, Holmes ended up pressing charges under attempting robbery in the first place. Nobody had to know that it was simply down to the fact that he despised the thief for interrupting in what was previously a working plan.
And so, nobody ever would.
The majority of the world's population's opinions on burglars didn't change.
And so went attempt number two. The only time Sherlock had shown evidence that he had given up, at some point in his life. For, after the second time he tried to achieve what he only ever wanted from a very young age, the reasons for similar actions never even brushed upon thoughts of a comparable nature.
And he became much more determined to playwright his own fate.
