I Wrote Like the WIND!

[impulsereader]

It should have been the worst sort of Frankenstein visual you could imagine; the plucked, cut-open body of the bird in stark contrast to the still-glorious plumage of its wings, its head lolling sickeningly, and Sherlock working it like a puppet. Instead it was beautiful; one of Sherlock’s graceful hands cupped the bulk of the creature practically, the other deftly manipulated some mysterious muscles and, despite its being dead, the bird spread its wings majestically, one last time.