Like Spinning Plates pt 4/5
anonymous
September 23 2010, 01:26:44 UTC
This is what happens
"Tell me what you see," is the question he asks, that makes Sherlock's eyes bright, placing a toy or a piece of clothing on the table in front of him. Today it's a small briefcase, retrieved from the lost and found on his way home. Sherlock's pale fingers dance across it, turning it, peering at labels, brushing over worn edges.
"Not old, not from the state of the lining. Worn at the corners, along this side, but fine and gradual, so through time and use, not carelessness. Except he the clasp; more marked than the rest... frequently late, in a hurry?" He glances at Mycroft for approval, lights up at the nod and smile. "Stretching here and here indicates it was often full past capacity, as does the state of the hinges. Pen marks along the top - easily bored, easily distracted, but drawings not words, so a bit of a daydreamer. A coffee stain on the inner lining, and here, look, there's a tear on the- "
Sherlock forgets he needs to breathe, sometimes, when he's talking so fast, and always looks a little surprised, then continues regardless. Not today, though, today he tired and docile, worn out from clambering over the rock outcrop near the outer fields at the back of their neighbours property. He has scratches on his legs, but Mycroft doubts he's aware of it.
The first time he had ever cut himself had been at home, on a fence, and Mycroft had found him pressing his fingers on the bloody scratch with something bordering on delight, even as he sobbed from the unfamiliar pain. It's the experience that matters, he's always rushing from one experience to the next. Mycroft thinks Sherlock probably doesn't know any more about what he was running from to end up at that station that afternoon than he himself does, but he does know that Sherlock has never stopped running, not really.
...and left handed." Sherlock finishes, and looks to Mycroft. Mycroft tousles his hair. An outside view is not something Sherlock has to teach himself, not like Mycroft did. Anyone can find the extraordinary among the ordinary, but to find it in the ordinary, well...
"What does it mean?" Is the question he is waiting for, and it's not long before he gets it.
"The previous owner of this briefcase," Mycroft begins, shifting to allow Sherlock, ever restless, to wriggle under his arm and half onto his lap. "Works in finance, wants an affair but doesn't quite dare to do it, and is grieving the recent passing of his dog..."
This is what doesn't happen
John's very good at getting his own way (he lives with Harry, after all, and learned from the best) but it takes a while to convince Sam and Tobey to let the dark haired kid standing at the edge of the park join in the game. They think he looks weird; John thinks he looks a bit not real, or too real, like people in movies. Mostly, though, he thinks he looks lonely.
"Hey!" John calls, gesturing for the kid to come over, and waits patiently until he reluctantly does. "Do you like football?"
"I don't know. I've never tried."
"You kidding?" Sam and Tobey scoff, and John glares at them before turning back to the dark haired boy, who has stiffened and seems to be waiting for something.
"Ok. Well, do you want to try?" John asks, and grey-green eyes widen in surprise.
"John," whines Sam, and Tobey reasonably points out that they have one ball, and it's his, so he should get to decide if they're going to spend all afternoon teaching some kid how to pass without tripping over his own feet.
"Sorry," John says softly as the others walk away, not sure why he feels quite so guilty. "I'll come back and show you when we finish this match, yeah?"
"Yes," says the boy, but not eagerly, or even doubtfully, just very simply, acknowledging a fact. John smiles nervously.
"Right then. Ok. Um." He turns and runs back to the other boys, looking over his shoulder. The kid doesn't move, and John tries to concentrate on the game.
Twenty minutes later Harry arrives, looking frantic, talking about accidents and ambulances and dragging John home. It takes a while for John to get anything out of her or his mother, but as they drive to the hospital he does catch the words "stroke" and "critical condition", and when he asks for his dad Harry starts crying.
Re: Like Spinning Plates pt 5/5
anonymous
September 23 2010, 01:28:01 UTC
John's father is stable by the time they get to the hospital, and a doctor takes them aside and tells them that he's going to make a full recovery. John sits at his bedside for hours, and only remembers his promise to the strange kid at the park late that night, when he is in bed, trying to sleep.
He looks for him there every day for three weeks, but never finds him. Harry calls him an idiot, and anyway, if you're going to make up and imaginary name for your imaginary friend you could pick a better one than "Sherlock." Eventually, though, life happens, sneakily and in little bursts, and he forgets.
He doesn't think about him again until almost fifteen years later, when he graduates and reflects on the day he decided he would be a doctor. He spends the whole ceremony trying to remember if the boy actually ever said his name.
This is what does happen
Sherlock doesn't want to go to school, but he will, because Mycroft asks him to. Mycroft isn't sure how much longer that reason will hold.
Mycroft always considered himself to have a precocious understanding of responsibility, but now he knows he was wrong. To feel truly responsible, one has to care, care to a degree that it overrides one's better reasoning. Sherlock is many things to him. Sherlock is unique. Sherlock is an object of curoisity and fascination. Sherlock is disorder, which Mycroft cannot stand, and spontaneity, which he holds at a distance and pretends not to admire. Sherlock is a reflection of difference and isolation and another way (he doesn't say better way, not out loud) of experiencing the world.
Sherlock is also Mycroft's brother, no less so because he chose him, and all that really matters is keeping him safe. So he puts up barriers, and Sherlock is Sherlock, and cannot do anything but push against them.
But for now, Sherlock suffers the tie around his neck, the stiff collar he dislikes and the burgundy vest he regards with faint horror before putting it on. Mycroft shakes his head and does the tie again, himself, down on one knee to fix it in place.
"That knot was appalling."
Sherlock huffs a little, and says kindly, "I try, but ties are very boring."
They regard each other in silence for a while. Then, Sherlock reaches out and grips Mycroft's lapels with small hands.
"Will they... know?"
"Of course not. People look, but they don't see, and they won't see anything but what you want them to. You, on the other hand, will see right through them."
"You saw."
"I'm not 'people'," Mycroft says dismissively, and Sherlock rolls his eyes affectionately. "We're not 'people', little brother, and we wouldn't want to be."
"No," Sherlock agrees, "We wouldn't."
This is what might happen
"But it's the solar system!"
"Oh hell, what does that matter? So we go around the sun. If we went around the moon or... or round and round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn't make any difference! It's not like I can go back, is it? There's nothing for me there. All that matters to me is the work. Without it my brain rots. So put that in your blog... or better yet, stop inflicting your opinion on- "
"What do you mean, go back? Primary school or outer space, because I've got to say, with you it could be either."
John only taunts lightly, but Sherlock freezes, mouth half-open, then ducks his head, staring at the floor.
"Sherlock?"
"Shut up, John, I'm making a decision."
"Sh-"
Sherlock crosses the room and clamps his hand across John's mouth, and stares into his eyes. The full concentration of Sherlock Holmes is a hell of a thing to bear, and John tries very hard not to blink, or think about how there's more green in Sherlock's eyes than he'd ever thought.
"John," Sherlock says, eventually, lowering his hand. "I have something to tell you. And then we need to go see Mycroft, so he can tell you too. And then you might believe it."
"I'll believe you." John says indignantly, and Sherlock smiles, and begins to explain.
Re: Like Spinning Plates pt 5/5
anonymous
September 25 2010, 04:33:16 UTC
I loved this, anon. I really, really did. And I absolutely loved how you presented it with all the what-if's and not's and your Mycroft was awesome and ooohhh that section with baby Jim was perfect.
Re: Like Spinning Plates pt 5/5travels_in_timeNovember 1 2010, 14:58:39 UTC
Just found this! It is beautiful. I love little alien!Sherlock and Mycroft choosing him as his brother. And the Lestrade part was sad and made me glad it really didn't happen that way. (And the Jim part, of course, but that sort of goes without saying. o_O)
Re: Like Spinning Plates pt 5/5keerawaJune 3 2012, 09:46:25 UTC
That was marvelous! I particularly liked the structure of the what did, and what did-not, and what might someday happen. And Mycroft's fascination with the impossible little boy, his distant kindness, was captivating.
Re: Like Spinning Plates pt 5/5
anonymous
June 3 2012, 13:27:48 UTC
Everything was perfect I especially loved the format - the contrasts. How I wished that you kept writing until John found out... Perhaps you will continue this universe? It seems very interesting...
A very beutiful story in reply to a great prompt! Well done
What an ethereal and whimsical touch this tale has. It certainly conveys that otherworldly point of view for the dark and the light equally. Just beautiful.
"Tell me what you see," is the question he asks, that makes Sherlock's eyes bright, placing a toy or a piece of clothing on the table in front of him. Today it's a small briefcase, retrieved from the lost and found on his way home. Sherlock's pale fingers dance across it, turning it, peering at labels, brushing over worn edges.
"Not old, not from the state of the lining. Worn at the corners, along this side, but fine and gradual, so through time and use, not carelessness. Except he the clasp; more marked than the rest... frequently late, in a hurry?" He glances at Mycroft for approval, lights up at the nod and smile. "Stretching here and here indicates it was often full past capacity, as does the state of the hinges. Pen marks along the top - easily bored, easily distracted, but drawings not words, so a bit of a daydreamer. A coffee stain on the inner lining, and here, look, there's a tear on the- "
Sherlock forgets he needs to breathe, sometimes, when he's talking so fast, and always looks a little surprised, then continues regardless. Not today, though, today he tired and docile, worn out from clambering over the rock outcrop near the outer fields at the back of their neighbours property. He has scratches on his legs, but Mycroft doubts he's aware of it.
The first time he had ever cut himself had been at home, on a fence, and Mycroft had found him pressing his fingers on the bloody scratch with something bordering on delight, even as he sobbed from the unfamiliar pain. It's the experience that matters, he's always rushing from one experience to the next. Mycroft thinks Sherlock probably doesn't know any more about what he was running from to end up at that station that afternoon than he himself does, but he does know that Sherlock has never stopped running, not really.
...and left handed." Sherlock finishes, and looks to Mycroft. Mycroft tousles his hair. An outside view is not something Sherlock has to teach himself, not like Mycroft did. Anyone can find the extraordinary among the ordinary, but to find it in the ordinary, well...
"What does it mean?" Is the question he is waiting for, and it's not long before he gets it.
"The previous owner of this briefcase," Mycroft begins, shifting to allow Sherlock, ever restless, to wriggle under his arm and half onto his lap. "Works in finance, wants an affair but doesn't quite dare to do it, and is grieving the recent passing of his dog..."
This is what doesn't happen
John's very good at getting his own way (he lives with Harry, after all, and learned from the best) but it takes a while to convince Sam and Tobey to let the dark haired kid standing at the edge of the park join in the game. They think he looks weird; John thinks he looks a bit not real, or too real, like people in movies. Mostly, though, he thinks he looks lonely.
"Hey!" John calls, gesturing for the kid to come over, and waits patiently until he reluctantly does. "Do you like football?"
"I don't know. I've never tried."
"You kidding?" Sam and Tobey scoff, and John glares at them before turning back to the dark haired boy, who has stiffened and seems to be waiting for something.
"Ok. Well, do you want to try?" John asks, and grey-green eyes widen in surprise.
"John," whines Sam, and Tobey reasonably points out that they have one ball, and it's his, so he should get to decide if they're going to spend all afternoon teaching some kid how to pass without tripping over his own feet.
"Sorry," John says softly as the others walk away, not sure why he feels quite so guilty. "I'll come back and show you when we finish this match, yeah?"
"Yes," says the boy, but not eagerly, or even doubtfully, just very simply, acknowledging a fact. John smiles nervously.
"Right then. Ok. Um." He turns and runs back to the other boys, looking over his shoulder. The kid doesn't move, and John tries to concentrate on the game.
Twenty minutes later Harry arrives, looking frantic, talking about accidents and ambulances and dragging John home. It takes a while for John to get anything out of her or his mother, but as they drive to the hospital he does catch the words "stroke" and "critical condition", and when he asks for his dad Harry starts crying.
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John's father is stable by the time they get to the hospital, and a doctor takes them aside and tells them that he's going to make a full recovery. John sits at his bedside for hours, and only remembers his promise to the strange kid at the park late that night, when he is in bed, trying to sleep.
He looks for him there every day for three weeks, but never finds him. Harry calls him an idiot, and anyway, if you're going to make up and imaginary name for your imaginary friend you could pick a better one than "Sherlock." Eventually, though, life happens, sneakily and in little bursts, and he forgets.
He doesn't think about him again until almost fifteen years later, when he graduates and reflects on the day he decided he would be a doctor. He spends the whole ceremony trying to remember if the boy actually ever said his name.
This is what does happen
Sherlock doesn't want to go to school, but he will, because Mycroft asks him to. Mycroft isn't sure how much longer that reason will hold.
Mycroft always considered himself to have a precocious understanding of responsibility, but now he knows he was wrong. To feel truly responsible, one has to care, care to a degree that it overrides one's better reasoning. Sherlock is many things to him. Sherlock is unique. Sherlock is an object of curoisity and fascination. Sherlock is disorder, which Mycroft cannot stand, and spontaneity, which he holds at a distance and pretends not to admire. Sherlock is a reflection of difference and isolation and another way (he doesn't say better way, not out loud) of experiencing the world.
Sherlock is also Mycroft's brother, no less so because he chose him, and all that really matters is keeping him safe. So he puts up barriers, and Sherlock is Sherlock, and cannot do anything but push against them.
But for now, Sherlock suffers the tie around his neck, the stiff collar he dislikes and the burgundy vest he regards with faint horror before putting it on. Mycroft shakes his head and does the tie again, himself, down on one knee to fix it in place.
"That knot was appalling."
Sherlock huffs a little, and says kindly, "I try, but ties are very boring."
They regard each other in silence for a while. Then, Sherlock reaches out and grips Mycroft's lapels with small hands.
"Will they... know?"
"Of course not. People look, but they don't see, and they won't see anything but what you want them to. You, on the other hand, will see right through them."
"You saw."
"I'm not 'people'," Mycroft says dismissively, and Sherlock rolls his eyes affectionately. "We're not 'people', little brother, and we wouldn't want to be."
"No," Sherlock agrees, "We wouldn't."
This is what might happen
"But it's the solar system!"
"Oh hell, what does that matter? So we go around the sun. If we went around the moon or... or round and round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn't make any difference! It's not like I can go back, is it? There's nothing for me there. All that matters to me is the work. Without it my brain rots. So put that in your blog... or better yet, stop inflicting your opinion on- "
"What do you mean, go back? Primary school or outer space, because I've got to say, with you it could be either."
John only taunts lightly, but Sherlock freezes, mouth half-open, then ducks his head, staring at the floor.
"Sherlock?"
"Shut up, John, I'm making a decision."
"Sh-"
Sherlock crosses the room and clamps his hand across John's mouth, and stares into his eyes. The full concentration of Sherlock Holmes is a hell of a thing to bear, and John tries very hard not to blink, or think about how there's more green in Sherlock's eyes than he'd ever thought.
"John," Sherlock says, eventually, lowering his hand. "I have something to tell you. And then we need to go see Mycroft, so he can tell you too. And then you might believe it."
"I'll believe you." John says indignantly, and Sherlock smiles, and begins to explain.
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:,D
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I especially loved the format - the contrasts.
How I wished that you kept writing until John found out...
Perhaps you will continue this universe? It seems very interesting...
A very beutiful story in reply to a great prompt!
Well done
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Dear authoranon, may I translate it into Russian, so my friends can read it too? Of course with all the credits to you.
Contact me if you see this comment, please.
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