April 15, 2014
We Are the Watchers on the Wall—Ramin Djawadi (2:38)
Sherlock
Honey 'Verse
Sherlock, Ian, John and Sally
"Your brush strokes are very even, Kill. Uniform. And you used what? Seven different tints of blue? Very elegant." Sherlock's nose was almost touching Ian's painting of a foggy London night as he studied the painting. "And four different tints of yellow for the street lamp. Very intriguing. Why only four?"
Killian Owen Brody, known to his friends as Ian and Sherlock as Kill, banged his head on the table twice before eyeing the other man. "That is not how you are supposed to view a painting, Shock. Brush strokes and tint usage are for authenticators and critics. You are supposed to feel a painting not just study it."
"What do you mean?" Sherlock sounded truly curious instead of sneering.
Ian scowled at the two hyenas, also known as Sally and John, laughing in the doorway and then turned back to Sherlock. "Okay, step back." He stood between Sherlock and the painting once Sherlock had moved back a few steps. "Now close your eyes." Sherlock shot him a look but did as bid. "When I tell you to, open them. Before that, clear your head. Don't actively think about anything. I know you can do it. Let all the thoughts in your head just buzz, don't follow them just let them be. Do not try to deduce me or the painting. Just look at it. Got it?" Sherlock gave a reluctant nod. Ian stepped away from him and to the side. "Now open your eyes, Shock."
Sherlock's eyes popped open and he stared for a few minutes in silence at the painting and then his eyes slammed shut and he staggered back a few steps. "Kill, if you do not take that monstrosity away I will destroy it."
"Shock?" Ian asked, astounded.
"Kill, I am not joking. Take it away. I do not like that painting at all." Sherlock kept his eyes closed as Ian took the painting from the easel. That painting brought back memories he'd thought he'd deleted. The man with hunched shoulders under the eerie street lamp was himself. To one side the swirls of blue and black had shown John's face, contorted in agony after he'd been shot. To the other was a man, hands out offering a syringe and the drugs that would take away his own pain. He saw the walk he'd taken the night they had brought him the letter informing him of John's injury.
"Sherlock, you all right?" John asked from behind him one warm hand squeezing his shoulder.
Sherlock rested his own hand on top of John's and nodded. "I was simply unprepared for the memories that painting evoked."
"Here, Shock, let's try a different one," Ian interrupted with the sounds of a painting being placed on the easel. "This one shouldn't cause so much upset."
"Must we?" Sherlock's voice was almost a whine.
"Yes," Ian answered with poorly disguised amusement. "Open your eyes, Shock."
Sherlock opened them and drew in a gasp. "It's amazing," he breathed out. He'd been prepared to fight off more unpleasant memories and instead was drawn into the painting. He knew, intellectually, that it was supposed to be a top view of a rose blooming but each petal was painted in such exquisite detail that he could almost smell its sweet scent. Could reach out and stroke the softness of its petals.
Ian grinned. "That is how you experience art, Shock."