Happy Birthday to the lovely and talented Charlie. Have a wonderful day, my friend. Wish we could all be together to share it...
However, the seemingly tragic fantasy isn't completely negative, because inwardly, redemption and rebirth are the ultimate pursuit of human beings. - a combination of an antique frame and modern parts. - Human beings are supposed to develop, unrestrained, into free forms. However, we prefer to add restrictions ourselves, setting our growth in a unified and predictable mold. - Surrounded by enormous buildings, I need a light mood and conscious mind in the hustle and bustle of the city. - We are all dreamcatchers in the dark. - Who stole my eyes? - The journey of fingers - Great men have a strong belief in what they do, and never adhere to the norms of society. - the brain is like a maze. When something finds its way in, there is no way out.
'inwardly, redemption and rebirth are the ultimate pursuit of human beings'; outwardly in Sherlock's case. He turned away from the manuscript that he was translating and gazed out the window, a pensive look on his face - as if there was anyone to notice.
His one focus was on redemption and rebirth - his two focuses - redemption, rebirth and getting back to John - his three focuses ... his Pythonesque quest, John would have said, ever lengthening... The clutter in his brain. No wonder it was taking so long ... too much clutter, no focus ... how could he focus without his blogger?
He knew that the whole mission relied on this translation and accruing the evidence that he needed to succeed and find the last of Moriarty's henchmen. Only Moran remained on his list, Saving the best until last, he thought acidly. The most dangerous of them all, searchable through a series of silly puzzles and games. Why the tract had to be so obscure ... he had pieced together a good part though. Moran was in a modern vibrant city, hiding in plain view. The maze - he ran through this list of famous mazes and drew a blank; or at least not a blank but too many options - Hampton Court leapt to mind. Could Moran really still just be in London while Sherlock was stuck here in Hong Kong? Or was he grasping at straws in the attempt to get back home more quickly. London was hardly renowned for its enormous buildings anymore, unless it referred to the Shard, but then why buildings?
And why stolen eyes - stolen 'i's, maze - maize with a stolen eye, but not stolen eyes ... his head throbbed. John would know what to do to make it better. Couldn't get John without the clues, couldn't solve the clues with this throbbing head ... endless, bloody nightmare ...
Antique frame and modern parts ... London again !? Clutching at straws, Sherlock, drowning man ... His head spun, his eyelids drooped closed. 72 solid hours with no sleep and no nourishment. Then inky blackness and the nightmares, the sleeping kind this time. And being woken with a start by the shouting voice, help! help! help! over and over again until he realised that he had the power to stop it, it was his own voice.
Then his face exploded with grinning laughter - of course - Macau - the City of Dreams, where the dreamcatchers live. Hazy translation, but close enough. And talking of close, Macau was virtually on his doorstep - well across the Zhujiang estuary at any rate - and Sherlock knew a man with a boat who was discretion itself. At least try there first, London could wait. The last part was a warning - find your way in, Sherlock, and you may never get out. Never mind that - if there was a way out of this living hell, he'd risk anything.
?
Macau was big and ugly and Sherlock was not impressed with the opulent buildings. He found it soulless, not that he didn't find everything soulless without John, but this place especially so.
They'd driven around for a couple of hours already and he was getting nowhere fast. None of the glossy brochures showed these depressing streets, but still there was nowhere that brought to mind lost eyes or a journey of fingers.
And then he saw it, an enormous building surrounded by scaffolding, like fingers barring entry to the building. A building with missing windows, like empty eye sockets. And at that moment, Sherlock without a shadow of a doubt that his quest was completely hopeless and he that he was clutching at straws. There was no way that he was ever going to find Moran this way, by following meaningless clues that could mean anything. He had no idea if he were even on the right continent, let alone which room in which building in the world, Moran might be hiding out. It was be a near impossibility for Moran to be at home whenever Sherlock chose to call. They could have been standing within feet of each other at any time during Sherlock's long mission to find him and neither of them would ever have known.
There had to be another way. Another way that didn't endanger Sherlock's friends and didn't alert Moran to the fact that Moriarty's nemesis was still in the land of the living. But what. Putting himself up as bait was a sure fire way of getting John killed and then game over and he might as well not have bothered all these months.
And... I promise to proofread this when I'm able... Apologies for lack of coherence, dreadful typos and all kinds of fanficy misdemeanours... =;-D