TtM - Prompt #220 - Melancholy - Gray - Sherlock Holmes
Another week, another Taming the Muse (tamingthemuse) prompt. WEEK FOUR - WORDCOUNT 560
Title: Gray
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Prompt: #220 - Melancholy
Warnings: canonical drug use
Rating: G
Pairing: depends on the settings on your goggles
Summary: It was a positively dreary day in London.
Disclaimer: blahblahblah not mine blahblahblah ya'll know the drill blahblahblah nobody reads this anyways blahblahblah
AN: So this is actually a sort of experimental form to this story. Bonus to you if you catch what I was trying to do. I'm not sure how well I did it, but I'm kind of liking how it turned out. :) Also, it's been raining all day today here in Sunny Seattle, so this was not hard to set the scene for at all.
Gray
It was a positively dreary day in London, the sort of day that starts at dawn and ends at dusk without any variation in between. Clouds blanketed the sky from horizon to horizon, and the air was thick and heavy with rain that seeped more than it fell, creeping in to every corner and sinking deep and cold down to the very bones of any so unlucky to be caught outdoors.
Down on the street, he paused. There was a distinct sound of violin music trickling down from the upstairs window, and upon hearing the slow, lazy discordance of it he released a heavy sigh. He didn’t bother knocking, but let himself in and laboriously made his way up the steps toward the sounds of weeping strings.
The scene was grimmer even than he had thought. The fireplace was cold, the embers long since strangled by the chill, and there was an untouched dinner tray sitting on the table nearest the door, also stone cold.
The wailing violin never paused, though he was certain he’d been noticed. The man on the chaise was pale and lethargic, usually sharp eyes drooping and focused on nothing in particular. It took no deduction to determine why, even if he hadn’t known already. A medical box and syringe lay near the languidly moving arm.
Forcibly suppressing another sigh, he waded his way through the muck and plucked the violin out of unresisting fingers. The last note shrieked harshly before silence oozed oppressively into place. Putting the violin carefully away, he limped loudly out of the room, banging kettles and rattling the tea tray just to make some sound. Once the water was on to heat, he limped back in to start a fresh fire, aiming a completely unacknowledged scolding glance at icy skin. He’d managed to coax a few lackluster flames into being before the kettle whistled, and he made his thumping way back to make tea.
On his return, he was not at all surprised to find that nothing had so much as twitched, and had to pause a moment to check that his contrary patient was still breathing. He loaded a cup of tea up with an excess of milk and sugar and then held it out, clinking the saucer a few times.
When his arm grew tired, he forced back another sigh and tapped the saucer again, putting on his sternest medical face. After a long moment, during which he contemplated simply pouring the tea over the elegant head, there was a slow shift and an arm swung out and idly took the cup as though that had been its idea from the start. He didn’t move, and with an obstinate huff, a miniscule sip was taken. When it looked as though the cup might return to the saucer, he frowned dauntingly. It won him a sort of sardonic chuckle, and he sat until the tea was completely gone.
He refilled the tea cup and was rising to tidy up when something made him pause. There was a soft throat clearing and then a sudden flood of barely there words.
“Whatever would I do without you…?”
He turned and shuffled a nearby stack of papers, pretending not to have heard, but making sure to keep his back turned so that no one would see the fond smile sneaking across his face.
Title: Gray
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Prompt: #220 - Melancholy
Warnings: canonical drug use
Rating: G
Pairing: depends on the settings on your goggles
Summary: It was a positively dreary day in London.
Disclaimer: blahblahblah not mine blahblahblah ya'll know the drill blahblahblah nobody reads this anyways blahblahblah
AN: So this is actually a sort of experimental form to this story. Bonus to you if you catch what I was trying to do. I'm not sure how well I did it, but I'm kind of liking how it turned out. :) Also, it's been raining all day today here in Sunny Seattle, so this was not hard to set the scene for at all.
Gray
It was a positively dreary day in London, the sort of day that starts at dawn and ends at dusk without any variation in between. Clouds blanketed the sky from horizon to horizon, and the air was thick and heavy with rain that seeped more than it fell, creeping in to every corner and sinking deep and cold down to the very bones of any so unlucky to be caught outdoors.
Down on the street, he paused. There was a distinct sound of violin music trickling down from the upstairs window, and upon hearing the slow, lazy discordance of it he released a heavy sigh. He didn’t bother knocking, but let himself in and laboriously made his way up the steps toward the sounds of weeping strings.
The scene was grimmer even than he had thought. The fireplace was cold, the embers long since strangled by the chill, and there was an untouched dinner tray sitting on the table nearest the door, also stone cold.
The wailing violin never paused, though he was certain he’d been noticed. The man on the chaise was pale and lethargic, usually sharp eyes drooping and focused on nothing in particular. It took no deduction to determine why, even if he hadn’t known already. A medical box and syringe lay near the languidly moving arm.
Forcibly suppressing another sigh, he waded his way through the muck and plucked the violin out of unresisting fingers. The last note shrieked harshly before silence oozed oppressively into place. Putting the violin carefully away, he limped loudly out of the room, banging kettles and rattling the tea tray just to make some sound. Once the water was on to heat, he limped back in to start a fresh fire, aiming a completely unacknowledged scolding glance at icy skin. He’d managed to coax a few lackluster flames into being before the kettle whistled, and he made his thumping way back to make tea.
On his return, he was not at all surprised to find that nothing had so much as twitched, and had to pause a moment to check that his contrary patient was still breathing. He loaded a cup of tea up with an excess of milk and sugar and then held it out, clinking the saucer a few times.
When his arm grew tired, he forced back another sigh and tapped the saucer again, putting on his sternest medical face. After a long moment, during which he contemplated simply pouring the tea over the elegant head, there was a slow shift and an arm swung out and idly took the cup as though that had been its idea from the start. He didn’t move, and with an obstinate huff, a miniscule sip was taken. When it looked as though the cup might return to the saucer, he frowned dauntingly. It won him a sort of sardonic chuckle, and he sat until the tea was completely gone.
He refilled the tea cup and was rising to tidy up when something made him pause. There was a soft throat clearing and then a sudden flood of barely there words.
“Whatever would I do without you…?”
He turned and shuffled a nearby stack of papers, pretending not to have heard, but making sure to keep his back turned so that no one would see the fond smile sneaking across his face.