Sherlock's Adventures in Wonderland, 1/6
Dec. 17th, 2010 08:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: Sherlock's Adventures in Wonderland
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: R
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Sherlock Through the Looking Glass. It can be literal, with Sherlock ending up in Wonderland and utterly annoyed by the fact that nothing makes sense, or you could take it in some creepy abstract philosophical sense, like he takes drugs and hallucinates.
Prologue
Sherlock tried to coax the skull into speaking again, but it remained stubbornly silent on the mantelpiece, refusing to give him any direction. When he reached for it, the world tilted, sending him sprawling onto the floor in an undignified heap.
He stood again, adjusting to the suddenly uneven floor and regaining his balance. The curtains covered the windows, but when he pushed them back, they revealed paintings of a cheerful outside rather than a pane. He touched the surface of one, which depicted a rainy day, the slick streets of London rushing underneath as people hurried home under a spread of black umbrellas; when he drew his fingers back, they were glistening with damp. He wiped them off on his trousers. The stag’s head caught his eye, winked at him, and went back to staring vacantly into space.
A sudden repetitive tapping, like the thumping of a rabbit’s leg on the ground, caught his attention. John, typing on his computer. John would know what was going on, if he had gone mad. Sherlock swung around and ran to the door, only to be knocked off balance as John ran out, pulling on his jumper and glancing at his watch worriedly.
“I’m late,” John said under his breath. “I’m late!”
“For what? What’s going on?” Sherlock asked, following the man around the apartment as he gathered his things. The keys went in his trouser pockets, and he threw his coat on, only managing to get one arm in the sleeve before hurrying off to grab something else off the kitchen counter. Sherlock followed him around, trying to get his attention. “John, what are you late for?”
“A very important date, I’m late,” John repeated.
“With Sarah?” Sherlock frowned. “John?”
Without acknowledging him, John opened the door and hurled himself out before Sherlock could warn him about the endless staircase he himself had fallen down earlier. Sherlock stood on the landing, unsure whether to plunge after the man or wait for him to reappear in the centre of their living area, but to his surprise, John’s feet met land as soon as he reached the landing. Drawing a deep breath, Sherlock followed him cautiously, gaining speed when he saw the man disappear out the doorway. The stairs remained steady under his footsteps, but when he reached for the door, he found with some dismay that it came only to his waist. He grasped the doorknob and pulled it open, but found that he could barely fit his shoulder through the too-small space.
He was stuck here, he decided. Doomed to endlessly roam about a small flat and changeable staircase, touching oil paintings and feeling them cry onto his palms and stags who winked at him and skulls who only talked when they wished to. He slid down the wall, bringing his knees close to his chest and feeling very much like he should be crying.
He was about to call for Mrs Hudson when a table nearby caught his eye. Curious, he picked himself up and saw two small bottles with silver screw-top lids glinting at him from the surface. Inside each was a small beige pill, speckled with brown spots. He shook them, listening to the soft metallic pinging as the pills hit the edge of the glass. On the table was a slip of paper with a thick cursive scrawl on it, declaring, “Eat me? Or me?”
The paper was a thick cardstock, Czech made, creamy and sturdy under his assessing hands. The ink was the finest one could buy for an old-fashioned quill pin. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to find both the paper and the ink, but what for? There was no rhyme or reason to it, no indication of what the pills would do or which one would be best. They looked identical to his eye and nothing around the room offered any clues.
With a fatalistic shrug, he unscrewed one of the bottles and held the pill up to the dim light. There was nothing fantastic about it, nothing out of the ordinary at all. It was simply a pill, the thin casing filled with a powder that offered no clues of its chemical makeup. He put it between his lips and swallowed.
Within moments, the world tilted alarmingly around him, like a Ferris wheel designed by Escher. The floor swayed and rocked under him and the walls shrunk, then bulged grotesquely, the wallpaper patterns stretching into odd patterns under the distortion. He felt himself falling again, but instead of hitting the floor, he found himself looking up with wonder at the legs of the table, which had suddenly appeared to grow into great tree trunks in front of him. He glanced around. The door behind him, which had formerly been much too small to be of any use, was now a perfect fit. No, that wasn’t right. He sorted it out in his mind. No, it must be he who had shrunk.
He didn’t know if that meant he had taken the right pill or the wrong one, but it was no matter worrying about it now.
His hands felt the cool metal of the doorknob beneath them, and with a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out into London.
Chapter 2/6
Chapter 3/6
Chapter 4/6
Chapter 5/6
Chapter 6/6
Author:
tripatchRating: R
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Sherlock Through the Looking Glass. It can be literal, with Sherlock ending up in Wonderland and utterly annoyed by the fact that nothing makes sense, or you could take it in some creepy abstract philosophical sense, like he takes drugs and hallucinates.
Prologue
Sherlock tried to coax the skull into speaking again, but it remained stubbornly silent on the mantelpiece, refusing to give him any direction. When he reached for it, the world tilted, sending him sprawling onto the floor in an undignified heap.
He stood again, adjusting to the suddenly uneven floor and regaining his balance. The curtains covered the windows, but when he pushed them back, they revealed paintings of a cheerful outside rather than a pane. He touched the surface of one, which depicted a rainy day, the slick streets of London rushing underneath as people hurried home under a spread of black umbrellas; when he drew his fingers back, they were glistening with damp. He wiped them off on his trousers. The stag’s head caught his eye, winked at him, and went back to staring vacantly into space.
A sudden repetitive tapping, like the thumping of a rabbit’s leg on the ground, caught his attention. John, typing on his computer. John would know what was going on, if he had gone mad. Sherlock swung around and ran to the door, only to be knocked off balance as John ran out, pulling on his jumper and glancing at his watch worriedly.
“I’m late,” John said under his breath. “I’m late!”
“For what? What’s going on?” Sherlock asked, following the man around the apartment as he gathered his things. The keys went in his trouser pockets, and he threw his coat on, only managing to get one arm in the sleeve before hurrying off to grab something else off the kitchen counter. Sherlock followed him around, trying to get his attention. “John, what are you late for?”
“A very important date, I’m late,” John repeated.
“With Sarah?” Sherlock frowned. “John?”
Without acknowledging him, John opened the door and hurled himself out before Sherlock could warn him about the endless staircase he himself had fallen down earlier. Sherlock stood on the landing, unsure whether to plunge after the man or wait for him to reappear in the centre of their living area, but to his surprise, John’s feet met land as soon as he reached the landing. Drawing a deep breath, Sherlock followed him cautiously, gaining speed when he saw the man disappear out the doorway. The stairs remained steady under his footsteps, but when he reached for the door, he found with some dismay that it came only to his waist. He grasped the doorknob and pulled it open, but found that he could barely fit his shoulder through the too-small space.
He was stuck here, he decided. Doomed to endlessly roam about a small flat and changeable staircase, touching oil paintings and feeling them cry onto his palms and stags who winked at him and skulls who only talked when they wished to. He slid down the wall, bringing his knees close to his chest and feeling very much like he should be crying.
He was about to call for Mrs Hudson when a table nearby caught his eye. Curious, he picked himself up and saw two small bottles with silver screw-top lids glinting at him from the surface. Inside each was a small beige pill, speckled with brown spots. He shook them, listening to the soft metallic pinging as the pills hit the edge of the glass. On the table was a slip of paper with a thick cursive scrawl on it, declaring, “Eat me? Or me?”
The paper was a thick cardstock, Czech made, creamy and sturdy under his assessing hands. The ink was the finest one could buy for an old-fashioned quill pin. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to find both the paper and the ink, but what for? There was no rhyme or reason to it, no indication of what the pills would do or which one would be best. They looked identical to his eye and nothing around the room offered any clues.
With a fatalistic shrug, he unscrewed one of the bottles and held the pill up to the dim light. There was nothing fantastic about it, nothing out of the ordinary at all. It was simply a pill, the thin casing filled with a powder that offered no clues of its chemical makeup. He put it between his lips and swallowed.
Within moments, the world tilted alarmingly around him, like a Ferris wheel designed by Escher. The floor swayed and rocked under him and the walls shrunk, then bulged grotesquely, the wallpaper patterns stretching into odd patterns under the distortion. He felt himself falling again, but instead of hitting the floor, he found himself looking up with wonder at the legs of the table, which had suddenly appeared to grow into great tree trunks in front of him. He glanced around. The door behind him, which had formerly been much too small to be of any use, was now a perfect fit. No, that wasn’t right. He sorted it out in his mind. No, it must be he who had shrunk.
He didn’t know if that meant he had taken the right pill or the wrong one, but it was no matter worrying about it now.
His hands felt the cool metal of the doorknob beneath them, and with a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out into London.
Chapter 2/6
Chapter 3/6
Chapter 4/6
Chapter 5/6
Chapter 6/6
