A lazy day
I have spent an exceedingly lazy day. I've gone from my bed, to the bath, to the kitchen, with no excursions beyond the borders of my apartment. It is sort of luxurious, although I feel as if I am getting sick, which sucks. I am also extraordinarily flattered about all the attention that amo, amas, amat has gotten -- I love that little story, and I'm glad y'all do too! In absence of anything else to say, here is a snippet of something I've been working on. In related matters, does anyone know of a good resource on the internet about Victorian childhood?
Mycroft had told him, only once and almost offhand, that he had been a wicked child, but Sherlock Holmes mostly recalled being frightened. He had been almost overwhelmed by the world, as it glistened and turned and changed around him. His nursery had been some small refuge, but he remembered sitting and crying on the floor in the center of it, the wood cold against him and the sunlight almost startling, disrupting the air and making every small particle dance and move and become visible. Someone had moved his bed and was replacing the wallpaper on the wall next to it, and the place where he had methodically picked off the paper to reveal the plaster underneath was now hidden underneath patterns in blue and gold, that particular and purposeful marking of his space and his ownership overwritten by an incomprehensible whim of the powerful.
The woman that was to care for him could not distract him, as he sat there and cried himself sick, glue filling his nostrils until he became too snotty and hiccuping to smell anymore. She had finally lifted him bodily and taken him from the room, stripping him efficiently of his clothing and depositing him none-too-gently into a warm bath, which only made him cry harder, his very limbs and mobility taken from his already delicate control. He could smell that his nurse had taken biscuits with her tea and he couldn't separate the sensation of her fingers on his body from the way the air nipped at him, from the light reflecting off of copper.
Mycroft had told him, only once and almost offhand, that he had been a wicked child, but Sherlock Holmes mostly recalled being frightened. He had been almost overwhelmed by the world, as it glistened and turned and changed around him. His nursery had been some small refuge, but he remembered sitting and crying on the floor in the center of it, the wood cold against him and the sunlight almost startling, disrupting the air and making every small particle dance and move and become visible. Someone had moved his bed and was replacing the wallpaper on the wall next to it, and the place where he had methodically picked off the paper to reveal the plaster underneath was now hidden underneath patterns in blue and gold, that particular and purposeful marking of his space and his ownership overwritten by an incomprehensible whim of the powerful.
The woman that was to care for him could not distract him, as he sat there and cried himself sick, glue filling his nostrils until he became too snotty and hiccuping to smell anymore. She had finally lifted him bodily and taken him from the room, stripping him efficiently of his clothing and depositing him none-too-gently into a warm bath, which only made him cry harder, his very limbs and mobility taken from his already delicate control. He could smell that his nurse had taken biscuits with her tea and he couldn't separate the sensation of her fingers on his body from the way the air nipped at him, from the light reflecting off of copper.