Ok, this started as one of the most serious things I've ever written, and then draft 2, 3, and 4 rolled around and it just slowly turned to this. So. This is based on the first of the five knee plays from Einstein On the Beach, which are supposed to be like little windows into Einstein's head. The 'lyrics' are made up of seemingly random numbers and solfege symbols along with two voices that I'm sure would make sense to me if I knew more about Einstein's life. This is a window into Sherlock's head.
Please, dear reader, if you have not heard it, listen to it at the link below. This will make even less sense without it. Also, un-beta'd, sorry for any glaring mistakes.
watch?v=jeEobpQMgD4
2 8
He blinks once.
2 3 4
Twice.
2 3 - 2 3 4 - 5 6 7
For a few blissful moments he can't remember...
2 3
Who is he?
2 3
Where is he?
2 3 4 5
It could be…
A balloon?
No.
What?
888 cents in 100 coins of change and twenty pence for a freddo and last night he was certain it was the funny one with the hat but maybe the leather gloves should've been a bit of a giveaway...
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His mind whirs to life every morning as he blinks once, twice, and powers on. It drags him from the sanctuary of the only narcotic that is actually encouraged by his peers, sleep, and is reminded almost immediately of everything that he is and everything he isn't. He is reminded of everything he doesn't want to be but is, of everything he wants to be and isn't. He is reminded of all the things he hadn't wanted to be but had learned to want to be because quite frankly it is exhausting to not want to be something that you already are. And vice versa. His mind is a finely tuned machine, quiet at first. Clear. It meets its user's demands with the press of a button. It gets busier and hums louder as the day wears on, storing massive amounts of information that could boggle a lesser mind. Sometimes he boggles his own mind. Sometimes he takes off on a problem and its like his mind is not his own, left in the dust to watch at a distance as it comes up with insane and inane conclusions alike which he then prattles out like he's reading from a script and his mind is shaking fists at his consciousness shouting "that's copyright!"
Boggled.
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Stretching his limbs, he finds that he's fallen asleep on the couch. He can tell without moving there is a crook in his neck.
Random facts instantly flood his head. The time of day from the way the light is flooding through the windows (7:30 AM). When John last cleaned the flat by the amount of dust particles shimmering in said light (just the other day, you know, military cleanliness and all that.) The precise way human eyeballs react in a microwave. How long it takes bruises to form on a corpse, and it is immensely satisfying to smack a dead corpse repeatedly with a riding crop. So satisfying, in fact, that he might give John permission in his will, should he be the first to go, to smack him as much as he wants. You know, get rid of all that pent up anger. Sherlock Holmes is aware of how infuriating he can be.
I, Sherlock Holmes, hereby give John Watson permission to whip my dead body repeatedly for being, both in life and quite possibly in death, a dick.
Oh, and a new one, the earth goes around the sun, don't you know? He couldn't delete that one, not after the little scene John had caused about it.
He sits up and scrubs his fingers across his face. There is the soft pad of feet on the stairs and then John is mumbling a 'morning'
it could be
and shuffling on slippered feet into the kitchen. He is making a cup of tea. Was the kettle clean?
very fresh
Sherlock is fairly sure he'd cleaned the kettle last night after an experiment involving low-concentrate formaldehyde.
and clean
If he tells John to wash it, John will ask why and Sherlock will have to tell him. John is always grumpy before his morning fix, and he might start yelling. Sherlock deletes it; a little chemistry never hurt anyone. By the time John sits down in his armchair with his tea and newspaper, Sherlock is at his desk checking his website and hoping for a new client.
"Up all night were you?" Says John, mistaking his flatmates grogginess for sleep deprivation.
"Mmm."
"Anything on?"
"No."
He just solved a case a few days ago and is in a relatively good space, but he wants to stay that way. It wouldn't be long before every one of his thoughts were bouncing off each other inside of his head at top speed, like the particles of the air in their flat. Trying to spread out, to keep moving. Infinitely. Gah!
"Anything interesting?" Sherlock gestures at the newspaper, and listens while John tells him about all the things he doesn't really care about. Elections, sports, trivia. Weather! Crimes he can solve from the title of the article. Boring.
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He just wants to hear John talk. It is strange, and Sherlock doesn't like not being able to explain it, but John makes Sherlock feel just a bit calmer in his day-to-day life.
It could get
Well, aside from the initial shoots of electricity throughout his whole body when he sees John the first time he walks in the room, or when John touches his hair (which John does a lot), or touches his hand, or his shoulder, or really whenever he touches Sherlock anywhere but that's none of your business.
He isn't as good as the cocaine had been, and he doesn't help as much as the nicotine patches, but he does help as a more long-term solution. He is a nice… supplement.
some rain
So Sherlock accepts it as one of the few mysteries that he'll never be able to solve.
John has finished his tea and is standing up, stretching his arms above his head.
"Hungry?" John asks. How can he not know the answer by now?
chance of thunder storms
"No."
clear skies before sunrise
"When did you last eat?"
is that a freckle?
Yes, a new freckle by the corner of his right eye, where the skin crinkles when he smiles.
"A few months ago."
date tonight
"If I make toast will you eat it?"
I wonder where else he has new freckles-
"If it will shut you up." Oh, is that not one of the biggest lies he's ever told? He wonders if John can tell. He isn't very smart, but he is definitely perceptive.
-it could get
The corner of John's mouth quirks incrementally before he makes his way into the kitchen. Of course, with a mind no longer bogged down with sleep, John is able to fully register the mess. Sherlock refuses to clean it up in the hopes that John might keep talking to him. He does. Yells at him, in fact, for a good five minutes while Sherlock does his best to look indignant. He is actually suppressing a smile. John's voice in his ears and effect on his mind is so sweet it proves a real challenge. He is pretty sure that would fall under the category of 'not good', now that he thinks of it. In fact, if Sherlock starts smiling while John is clearly upset with him he might simply storm out of the flat. Storming out of the flat is one of John's favorite ways of expressing anger. All things end, however, and eventually John tires himself out and retreats to the kitchen to make toast. Sherlock wonders if he will still get toast if John is angry at him. He watches from his desk. His flatmate's movements are fascinating. Why are they so fascinating? He watches, not for the first time and not for the last, quite intently (for science), trying to pick out details in John's gait and the way he holds himself that might be different than anyone else. He wants to ask John if he knows why he is so fascinating. He is pretty sure that would make John feel uncomfortable. Fortunately for John, Sherlock losses track of the original question because this particular specimen is just so interesting to watch-
-and his interest is purely a professional one, Goddamnit.
A few minutes later a plate of toast and a mug of tea are set down in front of him.
These are the days
He tries to look at least a bit put out.
my friend
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date tonight