awanderingbard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
awanderingbard) wrote2015-03-12 10:24 pm
awanderingbard) wrote2015-03-12 10:24 pm
Entry tags:
Haven't done this one in a while...
1. Pick a character (either a canon character or an original character) and ask me a question about him/her/it.
2. I'll answer the question with a fic snippet.
AU versions welcome as always.
2. I'll answer the question with a fic snippet.
AU versions welcome as always.
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"Why are you smiling?" Sherlock demanded, as he tried to get his violin back in tune. Two years without being touched had done nothing good for it, but at least Mycroft had kept it in proper, humidity controlled surroundings until he came back for it.
"I'm not smiling," Tzophiya replied, putting her beak back in a straight line. "But it's...good, isn't it?"
"What's good?" Sherlock said.
"Being...back," she said. She turned in a circle on the coffee table to look around the living room. "It all looks the same."
"No, it doesn't," Sherlock said. "Mrs Hudson moved all the books around, and there's been some sort of leak next door that seeped into that wall, and it smells of marijuana for obvious reasons, and none of John's things are here. It looks nothing the same, you're an idiot."
Tzophiya ruffled her feathers at the insult. "I know all that," she said, primly. "But it's not different, is it? Then how you remember it? It's not all...wrong."
Sherlock took a glance around. "No," he agreed. "It doesn't feel odd to be back. It feels..."
"Good," Tzophiya said.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Good."
He put his violin under his chin and did a few quick scales to test it out. Not bad. Still a little sour, but it would relax with some playing. He leafed through his sheet music. Tzophiya came over and plucked out a piece with her beak, tugging it free. He took it from her. Polonaise No. 1 by Wieniawski. It would do. He set the music on the stand, and poised himself to play.
Tzophiya sat on the music stand and swayed in time to his playing, tweeting along with the tune. He was out of practice, and she kept glaring as he hit the wrong notes.
"If you think you can do better, you should have settled as something with hands," he snapped. "And stop smiling! You're being sentimental."
"I am not," Tzophiya replied, sticking her beak in the air.
He took up the piece again. She flew over and landed on his shoulder. His eyes shifted to the side to look at her. She was smiling again. How insipid.
Still, Sherlock had to admit to himself, it was nice to be home. He cocked his head slightly and touched it to hers for a moment. Not long. There was no point in getting sentimental. Even if it was good to be back.
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If you're still taking prompts, could you do one along the same lines with Mycroft and Hisoka?
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Mycroft supposed there was nothing particularly different about being at university than there was about being at sixth form college. He'd been in a shared house before; he'd certainly been away from home for school before. He'd lived in London before. There was no great reason why he should feel any sort of anxiety over it.
However, after a week, he did feel a little bit of...something unpleasant. He hadn't found his footing quite as easily as he normally did. There were a great many more students, and he felt as though he were very unimportant in the masses of them. He wasn't used to feeling unimportant. At primary and big school and college, he'd always known exactly where he was and whom he needed to speak to get anything accomplished. Here he felt lonely, he suspected. He'd never felt lonely before. He loved being alone. He relished in it. It wasn't a sort of lonely of missing company, it was a lonely of not knowing where he stood and who he was meant to be.
"Maybe you should go out," Hisoka said, from where she was sitting on the window ledge, spying on the street below.
"I don't want to go out, and neither do you," Mycroft replied.
Her tail swished back and forth off the edge of the sill. "That does not preclude 'should', just 'want'," she said. "There's a difference."
Mycroft put the political philosophy textbook he was reading aside. "Where do you suggest I might go?" he said.
She looked over her shoulder at him, blankness in her eyes. Apparently no suggestions were forthcoming. She heaved a soft sigh and leapt from the sill to the bed, landing ungracefully in a heap. She stayed where she lay, face in the blankets.
"I don't want to go anywhere," she said, her voice muffled.
"Then stop being silly," Mycroft said. He picked up his textbook again, and opened it on his stomach.
"I don't know what to do with myself," she said.
She slithered onto his chest, and curled up in a ball there, putting her tail beneath his chin.
"You'll figure it out," Mycroft said, giving her a gentle pat. "And so will I."
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Thank you so much for writing these!!!
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