Post by SHERLOCK HOLMES on Feb 13, 2012 9:43:09 GMT -5
He had expected it to work.
He had hoped that it would work. And hope was not a common thing for Sherlock Holmes to indulge himself in.
It hadn't.
By the third time, he should have realised that it had probably gone too far.
He should have. 'Devil in the detail.'
As it happened (and quite predictably so, in all truth), Sherlock didn't notice how odd the circumstances had become. His determination was intended to bring success - but was currently only resulting in unfortunate, and rather embarassing, failure. Which, in the long term, only really provoked the determination to extreme levels.
It was a torturous cycle of chaos, extremely confusing in the most intricate of ways, puzzling even the most intelligent of minds. So really, Holmes couldn't be blamed when he wasn't aware that he was in too deep.
Quite literally.
The world was a strange one when clouded by the unrelentless power of water. One can never truly be sure of it's abilities until they are rather closely face-to-face. Or, in this case, completely submerged in it's purely vice-like grip.
It can cause joy and peace under some circumstances (imagine, a poor farmer casting one sorrowful gaze over his withering crops - dried out under the sun's harsh glare and slowly, slowly crinkling, when the heaven's open wide, and tear-like fragments of happiness fall to the parched ground), but danger and distress in so many others (the washed out screams of doomed and injured passengers as their 'completely reliable' ship is swallowed whole by greedy waves of inky black ocean).
When we do not notice, or have no desire for it, water is a constant presence.
But in times of need can hide so deeply that it is possible to doubt whether it even existed in the first place - or was the product of some near-delusional fantasy.
Considering all of these facts, Sherlock rather prided himself on his decision being rather fitting.
'Other worldly'.
No, that isn't quite right. It is more than that. It is better than that. There isn't probably even a single world existing that would be enough to describe it.
It is... it is...
Cold, in reality, though he didn't think that of course.
Very, very cold, in fact. A specific kind, naturally.
Imagine those days of winter from your childhood - days filled with the determination to complete your snowman before being called inside by your parents, days filled with rolling around in blindlingly white snow in an attempt to make an'angel' (when in actual fact, you must be possibly the only kid in history who didn't have a clue how to do it right), days filled with firing mounds of slowly melting ice at friends in a game of war.
Those days were blessed with a pleasant sort of cold. The one that can be easily ignored, because there's always the promise of a warm fire and a blanket in later hours, whilst being scolded for staying out too long.
This was a different cold.
Perhaps the most alarming factor was that it was new. It was something completely and utterly unique to anything of even the merest similarity that he had happened to experience before. Despite thinking next to nothing on the fact that it was cold, Holmes honestly couldn't stop his mind from straying to the curious thought of what made it so clearly, so obviously different.
Maybe, just maybe, it was the simple fact that this time, Sherlock faced the cold with no promise of warmth later.
Or rather, with no intent.
If he were to pay attention, the man would notice that the water was dimming the outside world in a way that wasn't entirely comfortable.
The effect, overall, was rather entrancing. It wasn't as though somebody has simply turned down the volume, or muted the lights. No, that was far too simple of an explanation for the spectacular workings of the water.
The sounds were already, more or less, gone. Those from the world outisde wouldn't be able to extend their noisy reach to beneath the water, which acted of somewhat of a barricade to keep out interference from external life. And any sound that the man beneath the water attempted to make would simply be drowned out, emitted silently as bubbles of air which would disappear from existence once they reached the surface.
Sight was following the same path, though it hadn't quite reached the mutual destination. It was difficult, even under ordinary circumstances, for one to see under water. And, though it was not quite pitch black in the midst of the night, it was certainly verging on being so. There were very few artificially created lights that helped Holmes' vision, and even they were disappointingly dim.
But then again, to focus on just two of the man's senses would be an easy mistake.
It wasn't just that he couldn't hear anything, or see very well, or even scream - if he would suddenly feel an irrational urge to do so - as he was being smothered by the water. Sherlock had begun to feel... detached, somewhat.
This managed to spark an unusual flash of almost-excitement - but that seemed to only last for a little while.
He had expected it to work.
He had hoped that it would work. And hope was not a common thing for Sherlock Holmes to indulge himself in.
Water can cause peace and chaos in different ways. Joy and anger, comfort and harm. There are so many contradicting things that it can create, provoke, result in.
But there is one constant.
Whether it is during bringing joy, or throughout the eerie and unforgettable silence found commonly after mass and devastating destruction - there always seems to be some kind of beautiful calm in the movements of water. It causes every moment to seem purposeful, intended, even if the results are surely not anticipated ones.
Of course, it was not the elegance of the water that Holmes was concentrating on when conjuring up his first thoughts on the matter. But rather such calm, that was sure to bring quiet to even the loudest, the busiest of places.
His expectations had been, briefly put, not-very-well-thought-out.
He had thought that perhaps, if the rest of the world had been blocked out of his head, so would the remainng contents. Maybe, in all the confusion that water caused, everything existing inside his own little universe would just be washed out - which, in turn, would leave his mind satisfyingly empty.
For some reason, he hadn't been thinking rationally.
For some reason, cutting off the influences of the world beyond his own hadn't decreased the brain activity that he had hoped to have stopped altogether.
For some reason, the suffocating effects of the water only caused the voices in his head to scream even louder.
He had hoped that it would work.
It hadn't.
He had hoped that it would work. And hope was not a common thing for Sherlock Holmes to indulge himself in.
It hadn't.
By the third time, he should have realised that it had probably gone too far.
He should have. 'Devil in the detail.'
As it happened (and quite predictably so, in all truth), Sherlock didn't notice how odd the circumstances had become. His determination was intended to bring success - but was currently only resulting in unfortunate, and rather embarassing, failure. Which, in the long term, only really provoked the determination to extreme levels.
It was a torturous cycle of chaos, extremely confusing in the most intricate of ways, puzzling even the most intelligent of minds. So really, Holmes couldn't be blamed when he wasn't aware that he was in too deep.
Quite literally.
The world was a strange one when clouded by the unrelentless power of water. One can never truly be sure of it's abilities until they are rather closely face-to-face. Or, in this case, completely submerged in it's purely vice-like grip.
It can cause joy and peace under some circumstances (imagine, a poor farmer casting one sorrowful gaze over his withering crops - dried out under the sun's harsh glare and slowly, slowly crinkling, when the heaven's open wide, and tear-like fragments of happiness fall to the parched ground), but danger and distress in so many others (the washed out screams of doomed and injured passengers as their 'completely reliable' ship is swallowed whole by greedy waves of inky black ocean).
When we do not notice, or have no desire for it, water is a constant presence.
But in times of need can hide so deeply that it is possible to doubt whether it even existed in the first place - or was the product of some near-delusional fantasy.
Considering all of these facts, Sherlock rather prided himself on his decision being rather fitting.
'Other worldly'.
No, that isn't quite right. It is more than that. It is better than that. There isn't probably even a single world existing that would be enough to describe it.
It is... it is...
Cold, in reality, though he didn't think that of course.
Very, very cold, in fact. A specific kind, naturally.
Imagine those days of winter from your childhood - days filled with the determination to complete your snowman before being called inside by your parents, days filled with rolling around in blindlingly white snow in an attempt to make an'angel' (when in actual fact, you must be possibly the only kid in history who didn't have a clue how to do it right), days filled with firing mounds of slowly melting ice at friends in a game of war.
Those days were blessed with a pleasant sort of cold. The one that can be easily ignored, because there's always the promise of a warm fire and a blanket in later hours, whilst being scolded for staying out too long.
This was a different cold.
Perhaps the most alarming factor was that it was new. It was something completely and utterly unique to anything of even the merest similarity that he had happened to experience before. Despite thinking next to nothing on the fact that it was cold, Holmes honestly couldn't stop his mind from straying to the curious thought of what made it so clearly, so obviously different.
Maybe, just maybe, it was the simple fact that this time, Sherlock faced the cold with no promise of warmth later.
Or rather, with no intent.
If he were to pay attention, the man would notice that the water was dimming the outside world in a way that wasn't entirely comfortable.
The effect, overall, was rather entrancing. It wasn't as though somebody has simply turned down the volume, or muted the lights. No, that was far too simple of an explanation for the spectacular workings of the water.
The sounds were already, more or less, gone. Those from the world outisde wouldn't be able to extend their noisy reach to beneath the water, which acted of somewhat of a barricade to keep out interference from external life. And any sound that the man beneath the water attempted to make would simply be drowned out, emitted silently as bubbles of air which would disappear from existence once they reached the surface.
Sight was following the same path, though it hadn't quite reached the mutual destination. It was difficult, even under ordinary circumstances, for one to see under water. And, though it was not quite pitch black in the midst of the night, it was certainly verging on being so. There were very few artificially created lights that helped Holmes' vision, and even they were disappointingly dim.
But then again, to focus on just two of the man's senses would be an easy mistake.
It wasn't just that he couldn't hear anything, or see very well, or even scream - if he would suddenly feel an irrational urge to do so - as he was being smothered by the water. Sherlock had begun to feel... detached, somewhat.
This managed to spark an unusual flash of almost-excitement - but that seemed to only last for a little while.
He had expected it to work.
He had hoped that it would work. And hope was not a common thing for Sherlock Holmes to indulge himself in.
Water can cause peace and chaos in different ways. Joy and anger, comfort and harm. There are so many contradicting things that it can create, provoke, result in.
But there is one constant.
Whether it is during bringing joy, or throughout the eerie and unforgettable silence found commonly after mass and devastating destruction - there always seems to be some kind of beautiful calm in the movements of water. It causes every moment to seem purposeful, intended, even if the results are surely not anticipated ones.
Of course, it was not the elegance of the water that Holmes was concentrating on when conjuring up his first thoughts on the matter. But rather such calm, that was sure to bring quiet to even the loudest, the busiest of places.
His expectations had been, briefly put, not-very-well-thought-out.
He had thought that perhaps, if the rest of the world had been blocked out of his head, so would the remainng contents. Maybe, in all the confusion that water caused, everything existing inside his own little universe would just be washed out - which, in turn, would leave his mind satisfyingly empty.
For some reason, he hadn't been thinking rationally.
For some reason, cutting off the influences of the world beyond his own hadn't decreased the brain activity that he had hoped to have stopped altogether.
For some reason, the suffocating effects of the water only caused the voices in his head to scream even louder.
He had hoped that it would work.
It hadn't.
