ficlet: Home By Any Other Name
My first time attempting a 221B (for those who don't know, 221 words, the last one starting with B).
I know it's ridiculously soppy, but I'd had a bad day and really needed something cosy. (Also, I dare you not to be soppy when you're listening to Explosions In The Sky. Best band for feels.)
Courteously britpicked by the very lovely epanaphoric. Apparently, even in a couple hundred words, "there's always something". Also overlimits, as ever giver of confidence boosts.
To many people, home is a safe, familiar routine.
Kicking off your shoes when you step through the door; tossing your coat on the sofa; putting the kettle on.
To some people, home is a feeling.
Warmth. Comfort. Ease.
To some others, home is a person.
For thirty-four years of his life, Sherlock Holmes belonged to none of these categories.
The imposing mansion he grew up in, though most definitely a house, never was a home: merely a place he lived in when he wasn't busy not-fitting-in at school. He understood - vaguely, scientifically - that he was supposed to associate a feeling of belonging to it, but it seemed preposterous. What was there to relate to in that place? A clever, distant father whose escapades had broken his wife's heart. A beautiful, silent mother consumed with grief and regret for the musical career she'd left behind. An older brother who used to understand, and who had suddenly become filled with condescension and closed doors. Sherlock Holmes, aged ten, did not much care for any of these things.
Afterwards, "home" was merely a convenience: an address to give out to people who might need him. No, not him: The Work. Only ever the Work for Sherlock Holmes.
Until serial suicides. Until pink. Until "oh God, yes".
Until home was a blogger.
I know it's ridiculously soppy, but I'd had a bad day and really needed something cosy. (Also, I dare you not to be soppy when you're listening to Explosions In The Sky. Best band for feels.)
Courteously britpicked by the very lovely epanaphoric. Apparently, even in a couple hundred words, "there's always something". Also overlimits, as ever giver of confidence boosts.
To many people, home is a safe, familiar routine.
Kicking off your shoes when you step through the door; tossing your coat on the sofa; putting the kettle on.
To some people, home is a feeling.
Warmth. Comfort. Ease.
To some others, home is a person.
For thirty-four years of his life, Sherlock Holmes belonged to none of these categories.
The imposing mansion he grew up in, though most definitely a house, never was a home: merely a place he lived in when he wasn't busy not-fitting-in at school. He understood - vaguely, scientifically - that he was supposed to associate a feeling of belonging to it, but it seemed preposterous. What was there to relate to in that place? A clever, distant father whose escapades had broken his wife's heart. A beautiful, silent mother consumed with grief and regret for the musical career she'd left behind. An older brother who used to understand, and who had suddenly become filled with condescension and closed doors. Sherlock Holmes, aged ten, did not much care for any of these things.
Afterwards, "home" was merely a convenience: an address to give out to people who might need him. No, not him: The Work. Only ever the Work for Sherlock Holmes.
Until serial suicides. Until pink. Until "oh God, yes".
Until home was a blogger.