[ Much like the woman wandering the grounds, Sherlock too was plagued with images of people copulating, as well as animals, children, the elderly, multiple bodies locked together in an endless embrace of which it became impossible to tell where one ended and another began. There were sounds accompanying the images, a gentle pulse of heat tracing lines down the extent of his skin. Pressure built at the base of his spine, sticky sweetness lapped at the back of his mouth and Sherlock swore he could taste something between honey and cream, an aftertaste to an act he'd never participated.
And still, he wasn't interested. His determination was unrelenting; not even the most intense subliminal messaging could sway him from his mission. Answers needed to be ascertained, to a plethora of questions that had been offered no good solution, not even the inklings of a solid hypothesis on the tip of his tongue. Just a damnable bout of questions which led to more questions, and even with assumptions to answer some of those questions, more enquiries followed. So the convoluted string of sexually-charged images, sounds, thoughts just served to annoy the detective, each one stabbed and murder, sliced and put down without the slightest hint of a second thought.
All but one.
One tiny, gentle sound of a woman's voice, and whether that voice was coming from someone who was here now or from Sherlock's memories, the detective couldn't be sure. It was a sound to signify a text message for many months on Sherlock's phone, a quiet aaah with every text received. His phone hadn't been operational since he got here, and he knew that said woman, The Woman, was not here. She couldn't be here, he would have known. He would have seen here. She would have seen him.
So that one sound plagued him, filtered into his mind and wrapped around his brain, digging it's fingers in to his thoughts, making his lashes flutter just so every time it pinged in his head. It was enough to have his breath hitch, and his heart hurt. The foray into the abyss of bodies, licking, teasing, biting, sucking, fucking, that was all bearable. They blended into the background like speckles on Sherlock's marble chess board, unimportant details that were noticed (he noticed everything), but disregarded.
All the details except one. The outline of a woman from behind, long black dress accompanied by stunning black heels, her hands hidden from sight, long, dark hair spilling down her back. But it was her figure, the curve of ribs into waist and back out into hips which caught his attention. For a moment, Sherlock was sure his heart had stopped, before it was revitalised and slammed against his ribcage. Eyes winced shut and then opened again, his breath drawn back in a gulp; there wasn't enough air in the entire world to fill his lungs.
Without meaning to, without knowing why, his feet were carrying him over to her, one careless step in front of the other, actually managing to step on a couple thrusting against each other on the ground, their cries of anger completely dismissed as he drew closer, closer to this woman, the(?) Woman. ]
I didn't think-- [ And then this image he has in his head: it breaks. It's gone, and she's gone, and the woman standing there isn't Irene Adler. Her skin is too pale, her face shape is different, and there's a tattoo on her chest that Irene would never allow herself. Too distinct, would make disguises difficult, even with the appropriate amount of make up.
The only thing that matters is he's made a mistake. And that, that irritates him. He looks away, falls silent, and closes his eyes, cursing himself, his foolishness, his oversite. Again. A sigh. Opening his eyes, the detective looks back at her, then decides that if nothing else, she, like him, seems to be dispassionate about the behaviours around her, and he may be able to discern some answers from her. Or offer her some of his own. ]
The percentage of people disinterested in intercourse here is low. The collective clarity of those still vigilant will be needed to find answers.
[ It's better than Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else. I'll just be pissing off now, don't mind me. ]
no subject
And still, he wasn't interested. His determination was unrelenting; not even the most intense subliminal messaging could sway him from his mission. Answers needed to be ascertained, to a plethora of questions that had been offered no good solution, not even the inklings of a solid hypothesis on the tip of his tongue. Just a damnable bout of questions which led to more questions, and even with assumptions to answer some of those questions, more enquiries followed. So the convoluted string of sexually-charged images, sounds, thoughts just served to annoy the detective, each one stabbed and murder, sliced and put down without the slightest hint of a second thought.
All but one.
One tiny, gentle sound of a woman's voice, and whether that voice was coming from someone who was here now or from Sherlock's memories, the detective couldn't be sure. It was a sound to signify a text message for many months on Sherlock's phone, a quiet aaah with every text received. His phone hadn't been operational since he got here, and he knew that said woman, The Woman, was not here. She couldn't be here, he would have known. He would have seen here. She would have seen him.
So that one sound plagued him, filtered into his mind and wrapped around his brain, digging it's fingers in to his thoughts, making his lashes flutter just so every time it pinged in his head. It was enough to have his breath hitch, and his heart hurt. The foray into the abyss of bodies, licking, teasing, biting, sucking, fucking, that was all bearable. They blended into the background like speckles on Sherlock's marble chess board, unimportant details that were noticed (he noticed everything), but disregarded.
All the details except one. The outline of a woman from behind, long black dress accompanied by stunning black heels, her hands hidden from sight, long, dark hair spilling down her back. But it was her figure, the curve of ribs into waist and back out into hips which caught his attention. For a moment, Sherlock was sure his heart had stopped, before it was revitalised and slammed against his ribcage. Eyes winced shut and then opened again, his breath drawn back in a gulp; there wasn't enough air in the entire world to fill his lungs.
Without meaning to, without knowing why, his feet were carrying him over to her, one careless step in front of the other, actually managing to step on a couple thrusting against each other on the ground, their cries of anger completely dismissed as he drew closer, closer to this woman, the(?) Woman. ]
I didn't think-- [ And then this image he has in his head: it breaks. It's gone, and she's gone, and the woman standing there isn't Irene Adler. Her skin is too pale, her face shape is different, and there's a tattoo on her chest that Irene would never allow herself. Too distinct, would make disguises difficult, even with the appropriate amount of make up.
The only thing that matters is he's made a mistake. And that, that irritates him. He looks away, falls silent, and closes his eyes, cursing himself, his foolishness, his oversite. Again. A sigh. Opening his eyes, the detective looks back at her, then decides that if nothing else, she, like him, seems to be dispassionate about the behaviours around her, and he may be able to discern some answers from her. Or offer her some of his own. ]
The percentage of people disinterested in intercourse here is low. The collective clarity of those still vigilant will be needed to find answers.
[ It's better than Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else. I'll just be pissing off now, don't mind me. ]