Fill: The Theory of Narrative Causality (1d/4?)
anonymous
May 17 2011, 15:31:40 UTC
To: consulting_detective, From: jumperfucker,
I'd noticed. The draft is attached.
Speaking of the pool, I'm still a bit blurry on Moriarty and what his appearance should be in this 'verse; d'you think you could sketch me a quick outline of what you think he should look like? it's like, your art makes it clearer to determine my writing. Or something. All my canon fics are based off your art, anyway.
To: jumpefucker, From: consulting_detective,
Are they, now.
"… I loved him best when he was asleep, when his face slackened, and his body's ever-brilliant intensity was assuaged with his exhaustion; at intervals, on days that grew hot and close in the evenings, he would curl on the settee for long hours, a dark coiling comma that was all legs and dressing-gown, and his lazy eyes followed me 'round our sitting-room, sometimes flickering like a pale candle, sometimes - sometimes touching at my neck, my wrists, as though he dreamt of softer things. Sometimes, they slipped shut, and I saw his chest rise and fall, gentler than I had imagined; it was the chest of a bird, fluffed and vulnerable, and the bones of the same, thin and delicate, moving under his skin.
I loved him best like this, although it was different - it was subdued, mellower than his chemical explosions, the supernovas he kept in his drawers, his maps and constellations. I had seen them once, glimpsed at long rolls of darker paper, and he had shrugged a laugh, quite literally - I had seen the rippling movement topple off his shoulders like a bathrobe - and said something about astronomy. Here, though, was no brilliance and no stellar thoughts, and for the first time in the day he looked absolutely human, clenching his pipe between his teeth, making soft sweeping declarations about humanity as he dozed.
I would not have given him up for all of London, the man with wet hair and open waistcoats who sat very late in the fireside armchair; by day, I treasured his exclamations and cutting, knowing eyes, the ever-quick composure he cherished so fitfully in all his dealings with other men and women. But when he was like this he was quite ruthlessly mine. In four years of rooming together I had seen every step and hook in that direction, the stages he had very cautiously taken before he had deemed it acceptable to sprawl.
It has become public knowledge, now, that I made lists to puzzle him out - they were hundreds of scribbled thoughts, on thin little slips of paper; I tried to organize them, made timetables of his regular thoughts and reactions. He saw them all, for I was not attempting to hide them from him. I thought he was flattered, perhaps. He certainly laughed at them often.
My hands itched at times for something different from ink and pen, when I wished to retain the image I had of him just then - the graceful curve of my friend's body became something I could have drawn, the angle of his bent knee where it became sharp, the arch of his fingers as his arm near fell to the floor. I am not an artist, and when the words did not come as easily to me as they usually did, it was something of a regret to know that I would forget tonight, let it shift and loosen into the memory of a dozen such evenings, tinged with red fireplaces and long, pale hands."
From: jumperfucker,
I'd noticed. The draft is attached.
Speaking of the pool, I'm still
a bit blurry on Moriarty and what
his appearance should be in this
'verse; d'you think you could sketch
me a quick outline of what you think
he should look like? it's like, your art
makes it clearer to determine my
writing. Or something. All my canon
fics are based off your art, anyway.
To: jumpefucker,
From: consulting_detective,
Are they, now.
"… I loved him best when he was asleep, when his face slackened, and his body's ever-brilliant intensity was assuaged with his exhaustion; at intervals, on days that grew hot and close in the evenings, he would curl on the settee for long hours, a dark coiling comma that was all legs and dressing-gown, and his lazy eyes followed me 'round our sitting-room, sometimes flickering like a pale candle, sometimes - sometimes touching at my neck, my wrists, as though he dreamt of softer things. Sometimes, they slipped shut, and I saw his chest rise and fall, gentler than I had imagined; it was the chest of a bird, fluffed and vulnerable, and the bones of the same, thin and delicate, moving under his skin.
I loved him best like this, although it was different - it was subdued, mellower than his chemical explosions, the supernovas he kept in his drawers, his maps and constellations. I had seen them once, glimpsed at long rolls of darker paper, and he had shrugged a laugh, quite literally - I had seen the rippling movement topple off his shoulders like a bathrobe - and said something about astronomy. Here, though, was no brilliance and no stellar thoughts, and for the first time in the day he looked absolutely human, clenching his pipe between his teeth, making soft sweeping declarations about humanity as he dozed.
I would not have given him up for all of London, the man with wet hair and open waistcoats who sat very late in the fireside armchair; by day, I treasured his exclamations and cutting, knowing eyes, the ever-quick composure he cherished so fitfully in all his dealings with other men and women. But when he was like this he was quite ruthlessly mine. In four years of rooming together I had seen every step and hook in that direction, the stages he had very cautiously taken before he had deemed it acceptable to sprawl.
It has become public knowledge, now, that I made lists to puzzle him out - they were hundreds of scribbled thoughts, on thin little slips of paper; I tried to organize them, made timetables of his regular thoughts and reactions. He saw them all, for I was not attempting to hide them from him. I thought he was flattered, perhaps. He certainly laughed at them often.
My hands itched at times for something different from ink and pen, when I wished to retain the image I had of him just then - the graceful curve of my friend's body became something I could have drawn, the angle of his bent knee where it became sharp, the arch of his fingers as his arm near fell to the floor. I am not an artist, and when the words did not come as easily to me as they usually did, it was something of a regret to know that I would forget tonight, let it shift and loosen into the memory of a dozen such evenings, tinged with red fireplaces and long, pale hands."
A Day Like Today; part III
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