impulsereader (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
impulsereader) wrote2012-07-11 11:55 pm
impulsereader) wrote2012-07-11 11:55 pm
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I am now in need a Pirate!Sherlock icon
Once upon a Time...oh, sorry, no...erm...not that Time. That other one, over there, just to the left; do you see, it’s waving to you - yes, well spotted! That Time. Oh look, it’s put on a green hat with a pom on top so you can keep track of it more easily. It always has been a very friendly, obliging Time; at least, most of the bits which we’ll be dealing with have.
Well, now that we’ve got that straight, Once upon that Time there was a little boy named Sherlock Holmes. In order to visit with him now we will swoop and dart over a London which I think would not be familiar even to those of you who may routinely walk the streets of your very own London. The London which little Sherlock Holmes inhabits is one engulfed in a singular fog of mystery and magic; it waits for us, holding its breath for just a fraction of a second to allow us inside, then unfolds its secrets before us like an origami crane coming undone.
At the time we are now soaring in to fly through the window of this little boy’s room, he is a very happy little boy. He is engaged in poring over a set of navigational charts which show him the details of the whole of the coastline of Britain. The charts had been a birthday present from his Grandmere Sabine on the occasion of his sixth birthday, which had been celebrated just the previous day.
In appearance, he is a charming child, especially when his clear blue (or are they grey?) eyes are this wide with excitement and his mop of curly black hair dips and flies about as his attention darts from one chart to another. The room he inhabits is almost as equally charming; it is cluttered with books and toys, everything a lively, growing boy could want. Mobiles adorn the ceiling; the most elaborate in the center is comprised of beautiful miniature sailing ships, tiny works of art which gaily sail through the air above Sherlock’s head; nearby is another made up of exotic fish representing every colour you’ve ever seen (and perhaps just a few you haven’t); my favorite is hung in a corner and it dazzles the eye with twirling prisms which grace Sherlock’s bedroom walls with dancing rainbows.
We now hear a prim knock at our little boy’s bedroom door, which subsequently opens to reveal a prim-looking boy (rather newly teen-age) with neatly-cut ginger hair. This is Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. “Sherlock,” he instructs firmly, “come have your tea. Mummy is waiting.”
Stricken, Sherlock looks up from his treasures. “But, Mycroft, I have to study.”
Mycroft sniffs a bit at first and looks inclined to roll his eyes at this claim; but he thinks better of it after a moment (he is a good lad, really, just rather inclined to feel self-important more often than not) and moves into the room. He does not go so far as to join his brother on the floor, but he does take a seat on the bed. “What are you studying then?” He leans over to take a closer look at the piles of paper which create a virtual sea around the boy.
“Sailing, of course! I must learn the tides first, but ever so many other things too, Mycroft. I already know all the parts of the ship and how to make her ready to sail, but I’ve never done it myself on a real ship. I must have one to practice on, and I must learn about the weather, and the main trade routes as well as the ones not used as heavily, and the shipping lanes, and -,”
But Mycroft was frowning at him, and rather abruptly interrupted this spilling of childish nonsense. “Sherlock, what are you talking about? You’ll learn to sail in a year or two, you’ve already been promised that, but what is this about trade routes? Holmeses don’t traipse around with cargo. Uncle Richard, who does deign to deal with trade (Mycroft sniffs again here) manages the business from his company’s offices in London; and you certainly won’t be working with him when you’re grown up.”
“Oh no, certainly not.” Young Sherlock sounds horrified at this idea.
Mycroft is obviously pleased that he got his point across so easily; it was sometimes quite difficult to bring Sherlock around to his way of thinking, he can be rather stubborn.
“I’m going to be a pirate!”
Well, now that we’ve got that straight, Once upon that Time there was a little boy named Sherlock Holmes. In order to visit with him now we will swoop and dart over a London which I think would not be familiar even to those of you who may routinely walk the streets of your very own London. The London which little Sherlock Holmes inhabits is one engulfed in a singular fog of mystery and magic; it waits for us, holding its breath for just a fraction of a second to allow us inside, then unfolds its secrets before us like an origami crane coming undone.
At the time we are now soaring in to fly through the window of this little boy’s room, he is a very happy little boy. He is engaged in poring over a set of navigational charts which show him the details of the whole of the coastline of Britain. The charts had been a birthday present from his Grandmere Sabine on the occasion of his sixth birthday, which had been celebrated just the previous day.
In appearance, he is a charming child, especially when his clear blue (or are they grey?) eyes are this wide with excitement and his mop of curly black hair dips and flies about as his attention darts from one chart to another. The room he inhabits is almost as equally charming; it is cluttered with books and toys, everything a lively, growing boy could want. Mobiles adorn the ceiling; the most elaborate in the center is comprised of beautiful miniature sailing ships, tiny works of art which gaily sail through the air above Sherlock’s head; nearby is another made up of exotic fish representing every colour you’ve ever seen (and perhaps just a few you haven’t); my favorite is hung in a corner and it dazzles the eye with twirling prisms which grace Sherlock’s bedroom walls with dancing rainbows.
We now hear a prim knock at our little boy’s bedroom door, which subsequently opens to reveal a prim-looking boy (rather newly teen-age) with neatly-cut ginger hair. This is Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. “Sherlock,” he instructs firmly, “come have your tea. Mummy is waiting.”
Stricken, Sherlock looks up from his treasures. “But, Mycroft, I have to study.”
Mycroft sniffs a bit at first and looks inclined to roll his eyes at this claim; but he thinks better of it after a moment (he is a good lad, really, just rather inclined to feel self-important more often than not) and moves into the room. He does not go so far as to join his brother on the floor, but he does take a seat on the bed. “What are you studying then?” He leans over to take a closer look at the piles of paper which create a virtual sea around the boy.
“Sailing, of course! I must learn the tides first, but ever so many other things too, Mycroft. I already know all the parts of the ship and how to make her ready to sail, but I’ve never done it myself on a real ship. I must have one to practice on, and I must learn about the weather, and the main trade routes as well as the ones not used as heavily, and the shipping lanes, and -,”
But Mycroft was frowning at him, and rather abruptly interrupted this spilling of childish nonsense. “Sherlock, what are you talking about? You’ll learn to sail in a year or two, you’ve already been promised that, but what is this about trade routes? Holmeses don’t traipse around with cargo. Uncle Richard, who does deign to deal with trade (Mycroft sniffs again here) manages the business from his company’s offices in London; and you certainly won’t be working with him when you’re grown up.”
“Oh no, certainly not.” Young Sherlock sounds horrified at this idea.
Mycroft is obviously pleased that he got his point across so easily; it was sometimes quite difficult to bring Sherlock around to his way of thinking, he can be rather stubborn.
“I’m going to be a pirate!”