(no subject)
He feels alive.
Is it a cliché? Sherlock considers that occasionally- at other times, times when his mind isn't so sharp, clear, honed, when he has so little distraction that he resorts to introspection. 'Feeling alive' is illogical nonsense when thought about properly, and yet it's how Sherlock feels now.
Poised, that works too. Poised. In control. Every one of his senses alert, data streaming into his mind and everything making sense. He's in his element; this is what he lives for. It's effortless, perfect, adrenalin coursing through him, the danger sending sparks down his spine and making everything that bit sharper.
The pool is darkened, water still, blue shadows unmoving on the walls. It's a fitting setting somehow; ugly and harsh and yet precise, cool. Slightly sinister by night, in the quiet, completely different from its daytime existence. Sherlock's footsteps are loud on the cold tile but he doesn't care; no need for stealth, not really. Moriarty will want him alive. To taunt, to talk to. The failings of genius; it always wants an audience, but what it craves is company.
Sherlock knows that very, very well.
"Hiding? I have what you want." He holds aloft the USB, turning slowly in the cold blue silence, voice echoing back at him. "This is what it's all been about, isn't it?"
Is it a cliché? Sherlock considers that occasionally- at other times, times when his mind isn't so sharp, clear, honed, when he has so little distraction that he resorts to introspection. 'Feeling alive' is illogical nonsense when thought about properly, and yet it's how Sherlock feels now.
Poised, that works too. Poised. In control. Every one of his senses alert, data streaming into his mind and everything making sense. He's in his element; this is what he lives for. It's effortless, perfect, adrenalin coursing through him, the danger sending sparks down his spine and making everything that bit sharper.
The pool is darkened, water still, blue shadows unmoving on the walls. It's a fitting setting somehow; ugly and harsh and yet precise, cool. Slightly sinister by night, in the quiet, completely different from its daytime existence. Sherlock's footsteps are loud on the cold tile but he doesn't care; no need for stealth, not really. Moriarty will want him alive. To taunt, to talk to. The failings of genius; it always wants an audience, but what it craves is company.
Sherlock knows that very, very well.
"Hiding? I have what you want." He holds aloft the USB, turning slowly in the cold blue silence, voice echoing back at him. "This is what it's all been about, isn't it?"