(no subject)
There is a finger, freshly severed, Sherlock’s pocket, and if he were normal he would be a lot more worried about that, but of course he’s not. No, he’s got better things to worry about (worse thing to worry about?) than body-parts. After all, it’s carefully wrapped in an airtight bag. No danger of leakage, no damage to his trousers, no smell.
When the best thing you can say about your day so far is that the severed finger in your pocket hasn’t put bloodstains on your trousers, you’re probably doing something wrong, but this thought doesn’t even occur to him.
It belongs (belonged) to an artist, which makes it as good a gift as any. He had considered finding a violinist, but the thought made the hatred which has been boiling in his gut since that first text rise in his throat and threaten to consume him utterly, and he doesn’t have time to indulge in pointless vitriol, fuss, shouting, gunshots at the wall or at anything else. John doesn’t have time.
He clenches his teeth against the thought, like that will keep it at bay.
He hates everybody in the train station, he decides, hates them because they’re tired and headachy and annoyed about stupid things like children and magazines and politics and they think they matter. He hates the ones who are happy, too, laughing as if they’ve got some kind of right to do it when John is- when John could be- when--
He hates how illogical Moriarty and John both make him feel.
More teeth-clenching. More waiting. More time slipping away.
When the best thing you can say about your day so far is that the severed finger in your pocket hasn’t put bloodstains on your trousers, you’re probably doing something wrong, but this thought doesn’t even occur to him.
It belongs (belonged) to an artist, which makes it as good a gift as any. He had considered finding a violinist, but the thought made the hatred which has been boiling in his gut since that first text rise in his throat and threaten to consume him utterly, and he doesn’t have time to indulge in pointless vitriol, fuss, shouting, gunshots at the wall or at anything else. John doesn’t have time.
He clenches his teeth against the thought, like that will keep it at bay.
He hates everybody in the train station, he decides, hates them because they’re tired and headachy and annoyed about stupid things like children and magazines and politics and they think they matter. He hates the ones who are happy, too, laughing as if they’ve got some kind of right to do it when John is- when John could be- when--
He hates how illogical Moriarty and John both make him feel.
More teeth-clenching. More waiting. More time slipping away.