April 2011
Well, I have this glorious new fandom, and I wanted to prove that I'm still alive, so...
I have been incredibly busy these past several months, not able to creatively write at all. I was dying to stretch out my descriptive muscles, so I decided to take a break from finishing up assignments and studying for finals to scratch this out.
And so I give you this writing/description exercise and not really a fanfiction at all... Really, it's pretty stream-of-consciousness. I mostly wanted to get out some of my descriptions of Mr. Cumberbatch's Sherlock before I drove myself crazy making them up and having nowhere to put them. XD
It's from the point of view of whoever you want it to be. I imagine it's some shop girl somewhere...
Disclaimer: Oh, if only I owned "Sherlock"... The show would be not nearly so brilliant. Hallelujah! X)
You can't help but watch him walk down the street. Really. I mean, I can't. If I'm on the sidewalk and he's coming my way, I shift to the side and covertly turn my gaze to follow his path, to follow the subtle flutter of his messy, black curls. If I catch sight of him from across the street, then I slow my pace to observe the clean lines of his long, black coat.
I can't help it.
He stands out. If it's not for his height that anybody notices him, his face towering a foot above anyone else in the crowd, then it is that very face itself. I have never seen any other face like it. The mountain-white skin so shocking against his dark hair is only part of it. If I had been shown a picture of just that face, I would have seen something alien.
I wonder sometimes if he is an alien.
No human could possibly have cheekbones that catch the light like that. No one could have eyes so icy cold and yet so breathtaking to see. His limbs are impossibly long, and he is impossibly thin.
And when that light catches not just his cheekbones, but his entire visage, in just the right way, he is impossibly handsome.
Today, just like any other day, I stopped what I was doing and carefully kept my eye on the bend of his arms, his hands mounted securely in the pockets of that fine black coat. The ebb and flow of his legs, the length of them just barely perceptible in the folds of fabric that protected him from the sharp winter air.
Every time I see him walk, he has a purpose. This man never goes anywhere without a reason, and it is always at the same brisk pace that he moves anywhere.
In the past, I would see him walking alone.
Recently, his gait has been a little slower; recently, a smaller, kind-faced man who has aged too much for his years has walked with him, or been barely able to keep up with him. I don't know who this man is or where or when he showed up in the other's life, but having him there... is not so bad.
After realizing this, I wonder for a moment why. After all, this new man's companionship should ruin the isolated show of the lone wolf on the prowl. Maybe I should feel jealous that he should come to know the black-coated man on a personal level while I am left to watch from afar, never having the reason or the bravery to ask his name.
And I realize that no one knows this man on a personal level. I have never known him to show any indication of having any personal relationships with other people. I have certainly seen him talking with others, on the street or by doorways, but never the same person twice. Somehow, this man had no companions.
And now he does, at the expense of my private show.
And I decide that that's okay.
Yep. This wasn't anything serious, so please don't feel like you have to gather anything profound from it. X) This was purely for fun.
Thanks for stopping by. :)
