Ha. According to , this is exactly 400 words. I didn't even mean to do that.
This was my attempt to get into Sherlock's head, try and understand him a little better. I quite like how it came out... it's been a while since I've had this much fun playing with a character.
I'd really, really love to know what you think, so if you could take just a moment to tell me whether you think my Sherlock is true to the original or not I'd be very very grateful!
Sherlock, of course, belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC.
Sherlock sits at the table with his eyes closed, one hand idly stirring the cup of tea in front of him. The café buzzes with conversation, but he makes a conscious effort not to hear any of it.
The teaspoon clacks against the cup, metal on ceramic.
He opens his eyes-
And sees (brand new) wedding rings- they're recently married but the (old-fashioned, tarnished) engagement ring is old (probably an heirloom), something to be treasured, but not being looked after- why not? Because she's unhappy, she married him for the child (toy in handbag)... the wife is thinking of straying (eyeing up the waiter) but the husband hasn't realised (he's affectionate- still in the honeymoon stage). She's from a rich family (upper class accent) but married down (cheap suit, cheap phone, inky cuffs; probably an office worker) and she's regretting it-
He snaps his eyes shut again, cutting off the flow of information. It's all dull, dull as ditch water, and he's seen it a thousand times before in a thousand other faces and it's so very very boring living in a world where all he has to do to know everything about a person is open his eyes.
He doesn't understand how they can't see it. How can that man possibly sit there fawning over his wife when if he'd just look he'd see that she's thinking of someone else? The signs are all there, but they're blind, all of them. And if he tries to explain- anger, indignation, disbelief.
He doesn't understand them. He doesn't understand how they can be so stupid, so blind, so happy. Don't they realise they're all the same? How can they be content like that? How can they possibly cope, living in such little worlds?
But then again, isn't that Sherlock's problem? He can't live like they do, and it drives him insane watching them. Don't they know they could be so much better if they'd just open their eyes-
They're all so very boring.
Sherlock stands up abruptly, ignoring the rush of information from all sides (the cashier's skimming money off the top the man in the corner has three dogs the waiter's a drug addict the woman to the right is pregnant and it's all so dull, dull, dull) and leaves, abandoning his untouched tea. He hails a cab.
Lestrade better have a murder, or he's going to go mad.
