Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
workaphilic) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
paradisa2013-01-06 04:42 pm
workaphilic) wrote in paradisa2013-01-06 04:42 pm
Entry tags:
030 || written/dictated;
[ Private ]
[The journal opens to snuffling.
The dog, it seems, has made it its life mission to sit on top of Sherlock's feet whenever the opportunity presents itself. (A hundred more comfortable places for it to be sitting, and it chooses the most inconvenient. Why, why, why?!)
A ballpoint pen presses to the page, but it only leaves a dot before there's rustling and a low whine.]
Go away.
[The puppy whines louder (noise noise noise NOISE) and something heavy slams down onto the table.]
For god's sake-- go. I understand that words are difficult, but the sentiment has to be clear.
[The dog goes quiet, but the silence doesn't stick. It's filled by bubbling and the occasional clink of glassware, while Sherlock writes out a series of chemical equations onto the page.
But something must go wrong, somewhere, because there's a muted pop, shattering glass, and a yelp from the dog. Liquid seeps into the corner of the page, swirled slightly pink.
Sherlock doesn't say anything at all. There's no epiphany, no gasp of delight, no frustrated groan. He pulls the journal away from the spill, and crosses out all of his notes, each line more roughly than the last until the point of the pen finally tears into the page.
There's a pause, and then he writes one line before he closes the journal.]
This arrangement is no longer viable.
----
[When the journal opens again, Sherlock seems to be mid-ramble. The usual smugness or abrasiveness that's usually in his tone when he talks to Paradisa at large is absent; he sounds monotone, almost like he's talking to himself. The only indication that he even knows he's speaking to the journal is that he opened it in the first place.]
Magic doesn't exist in my world. The idea of it is fanciful and pointless, and most are actually reasonable enough to recognize it. Those who don't are simple minded people in need of an excuse not to face the realities of life, or death, or whatever else it is they won't look at too closely.
Even still, you can't hear the end of it. There are stories, loads of them, about different worlds with different rules, about magic. Those worlds are either better or worse than mine, depending on the genre and the age level. They're works of fiction, all hopeless exercises in the impossible, but ordinary people snap them up like candy.
They say they don't believe in it, but the sentiment is the same. They don't want to acknowledge the obvious in our world, so they demand a different one. Easiest way to make a world not like ours is with magic.
This world, though. Hardly different at all, is it? The pool of resources is different, but the rest of it is similar enough. Not even all human, and you're still an adequate enough approximation for humanity. It's almost--
[He stops, abruptly.]
Oh.
[A pause. His voice gets clearer, like he's coming back to earth.]
Never mind. Disregard all that.
[And he flips the journal shut.]
[The journal opens to snuffling.
The dog, it seems, has made it its life mission to sit on top of Sherlock's feet whenever the opportunity presents itself. (A hundred more comfortable places for it to be sitting, and it chooses the most inconvenient. Why, why, why?!)
A ballpoint pen presses to the page, but it only leaves a dot before there's rustling and a low whine.]
Go away.
[The puppy whines louder (noise noise noise NOISE) and something heavy slams down onto the table.]
For god's sake-- go. I understand that words are difficult, but the sentiment has to be clear.
[The dog goes quiet, but the silence doesn't stick. It's filled by bubbling and the occasional clink of glassware, while Sherlock writes out a series of chemical equations onto the page.
But something must go wrong, somewhere, because there's a muted pop, shattering glass, and a yelp from the dog. Liquid seeps into the corner of the page, swirled slightly pink.
Sherlock doesn't say anything at all. There's no epiphany, no gasp of delight, no frustrated groan. He pulls the journal away from the spill, and crosses out all of his notes, each line more roughly than the last until the point of the pen finally tears into the page.
There's a pause, and then he writes one line before he closes the journal.]
This arrangement is no longer viable.
----
[When the journal opens again, Sherlock seems to be mid-ramble. The usual smugness or abrasiveness that's usually in his tone when he talks to Paradisa at large is absent; he sounds monotone, almost like he's talking to himself. The only indication that he even knows he's speaking to the journal is that he opened it in the first place.]
Magic doesn't exist in my world. The idea of it is fanciful and pointless, and most are actually reasonable enough to recognize it. Those who don't are simple minded people in need of an excuse not to face the realities of life, or death, or whatever else it is they won't look at too closely.
Even still, you can't hear the end of it. There are stories, loads of them, about different worlds with different rules, about magic. Those worlds are either better or worse than mine, depending on the genre and the age level. They're works of fiction, all hopeless exercises in the impossible, but ordinary people snap them up like candy.
They say they don't believe in it, but the sentiment is the same. They don't want to acknowledge the obvious in our world, so they demand a different one. Easiest way to make a world not like ours is with magic.
This world, though. Hardly different at all, is it? The pool of resources is different, but the rest of it is similar enough. Not even all human, and you're still an adequate enough approximation for humanity. It's almost--
[He stops, abruptly.]
Oh.
[A pause. His voice gets clearer, like he's coming back to earth.]
Never mind. Disregard all that.
[And he flips the journal shut.]
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What's your murder rate?
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[There's a pause, then a little more soberly ] Too many, in my case.
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As for you, not really the attitude I've seen from most mass-murderers.
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Yes, well. Most mass-murderers weren't driven by instincts at the time, and learned how to suppress aforementioned instincts and in the process learned what a crappy thing regret is.
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[He makes a tsking sound.]
"Instinct" doesn't count in my books. Your personal self-loathing not withstanding.
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Perhaps you haven't met a vampire yet?
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Met one or two. Read about them. Still doesn't count.
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You sound very sure of yourself on that. Have you met any vampires from the Discworld?
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Well, now I've met one, apparently.
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And you're so willing to base your opinions just off little old me? I'm flattered.
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Not you, experience in general. Unless you've adopted a different definition of "instinct," I don't see why your biology should factor in at all.
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It's like... you have alcoholics in your world, right?
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He does make a vaguely impatient sound, though.]
Yes, plenty.
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Then it's like that.
Only with blood. There are those of us, Black Ribboners, who choose to abstain from blood. We need to find something else to fixate on, as the craving is impossible to remove completely.
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Instinct, real instinct like the kind you're describing, takes all the fun out of it. [Motive, is what he's saying. It ruins a perfectly good 'how' if the 'why' isn't up to snuff.] Could have had fun with a vampire or two in my world, maybe, but Paradisa has raised the bar a bit.
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