|"Everything screams in my dreams tonight."|
“Whoops!” A young girl, no older than fourteen, hurriedly exclaims, twisting a strawberry blond lock nervously around her finger. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”
“Oh…” you belatedly fight against yourself to shout the foul oath on the tip of your tongue. Your sparkling eyes glaze over the humongous stack of reports handed to you by your colleagues, half of it drenched to the tips with sticky tan coffee that’s pouring out of your simple mug.
Pages upon pages of neatly typed words, and now some of them are wiped off the mark. You mentally chide yourself not to scream at the girl—as she hasn’t done anything wrong—but no doubt you’ll pay the price for it later on.
“It’s all right, it’s fine, I didn’t really need that stack of papers anyway.” You force out the last genuine smile in your body, while mentally swallowing down obscenities.
“You sure?” she anxiously asks, clasping her hands together. No doubt she wouldn’t want to anger the girl that might as well balance S.H.I.E.L.D on top of her head. Oh, and come to think of it, you might be so angry that you might refuse to work any longer!
One curt nod from you is all the reassurance she needs, and she guiltlessly skips to her tiny workplace, already typing shamelessly to her friends via chat, on her paper thin laptop.
You exhale in relief, and forcefully turn towards the dripping stack of work now increasingly growing, as worker upon worker goes by and stacks a manuscript on your desk. You’ve got a lot of work to do. With a quick twist of your right hand, you snatch a handful of towels that’s innocently sitting on the side of your file cabinet, and begin to sop up the mess with agonizingly slow pace. (Due to the fact that you have to be extremely careful not to knock over the skyscraper piles growing like beanstalks on your desk).
When the mess is cleared away—for the moment—you throw yourself into your squeaky desk chair, blowing a straggly strand of hair out of your face.
It’s not as if I have a choice, you think to yourself resentfully, as you take the tip top manuscript off the countless sheaves of paper lining your desks. In bold, yet neatly inked font, is a requirement for a new laptop, slim as a wood leaf, but must be evergreen in all corners. Keyboard symbols drawn in rusted gold ink, touchscreen sensitive, of course.
As you begin your tedious work cycle again, you try and block out the mental scream that’s been building up in your head for years. You had snagged a job at S.H.I.E.L.D by pure chance-due to someone slipping that you had a work of a prodigy in the arts.
And everyone always knows that prodigies are picked quite quickly by the elite.
You were sent by streaming underwater jet (yes, underwater jet) to S.H.I.E.L.D’s main headquarters in the middle of nowhere, and ordered to start designing contraptions and such for the program.
At first, you were an equal to everyone in the office, a girl who had equal talents to everyone around her. But your advanced skills preceded you, and propelled you into a reputation that you didn’t know you had, until it was too late.
To your unfortunate luck, your coworkers were such lazy procrastinators, they would just kick up their heels and relax while sipping a cup of coffee, plopping the day’s work onto your desk. You, on the other hand, can’t afford to rest.
Being the sharpest tack in the glass headquarters takes its tolls; and unfortunately, that toll is as high as the Taipei 101. All your colleagues took your innovative mind for granted, stating that they couldn’t possibly dream up of genius designs, and put their work directly on your hands.
And if your boss finds out…well, you think sarcastically to yourself as you refill your mug with coffee. Would he want to change this unfair system?
Your boss wasn’t one for the resting type-in fact, he would proudly declare to anyone who’s about, that his designing office was the first in all of S.H.I.E.L.D’s networks.
He’s one to talk.
The reason that his branch of design was number one is because of you. Almost every single piece of technology that S.H.I.E.L.D had ever created was in your designs. You are the one to first sketch, then make a prototype drawing, and sent them back to their workers. They then ship the drawings to the engineering department. If they approve of the design, the department would then make a miniscule prototype-not to scale, of course-and if it’s sufficient enough for you-after your coworkers give you the prototype-, S.H.I.E.L.D immediately patents it.
Now this isn’t to say that there aren’t other artists that make the government program itself. Nukes, explosives, and guns…no, those you left to the pyromaniacs that are miles away from you-thankfully. But where simplicity, artistic skill, and efficiency is involved, almost all the time you created it.
The infamous Helicarrier, with its camouflaging glass surfaces, gigantic whirring blades, and complex inner system that nearly went haywire after the Avengers’ recent battle? Your idea.
The nearly indestructible Tesseract holder, that firmly and cautiously contained the cube in midair, so it wouldn’t detonate? Courtesy of yours truly.
The inescapable circular cage that the troublesome Loki Laufeyson, Norse God of Mischief, was once imprisoned in? Not capable without your quick thinking.
Over half of S.H.I.E.L.D’s crisp outfits, furniture, and secretive underground interiors? Check, check, check; all of them are of your mind and creative spurring.
Unfortunately, those ideas are your colleagues officially. The back and forth exchange of work from the people in the office is all the communication you ever have with them.
All they can find out in their idiotic minds are that you are the girl who does everyone’s work as a service; why do all the difficult jobs designing while you can just send them over to the girl next door? Exactly.
As much as you want and desire to break free of your titanium locked prison in S.H.I.E.L.D, you know you cannot. Almost every designed and technologically innovative machine or substance comes from you now.
If you leave, every worker in the office would be startled into submission in real attempt at their job, and it wouldn’t be pretty after a few years’ rest. S.H.I.E.L.D wouldn’t exactly be advanced for the next couple of decades, not in a long time.
If you drop out of the program now, S.H.I.E.L.D may as well be knocking stones together without your help. Heck, if you stretched your surprising large influence to its maximum limit, not even the Avengers would be grouped if you left.
You allow your frame to be rocked by a single shiver; without your art, to quite literally put the quote, the earth would just be ‘eh’. Or it could also be thrown into a chaotic tumult where no one could stop evil forces from coming.
Is it any wonder that you’re obliged to choose the former option?
In S.H.I.E.L.D’s book, nothing is what it seems to be. ‘Obliged’ isn’t a sense of obedience. Obliged is equal to deciding whether or not there be near-apocalyptic equations.
And even that’s wildly not to scale for, say, if another crazy person decides to rule the Earth and crush it to bits, instead of making it their possessive domain.
The fate of humanity and the world resting in one’s palms, and you’re thinking of quitting your job, and losing the hope of millions?
But for such a crucial job, you’d think you should be treated with some respect. Nada. S.H.I.E.L.D’s got respect for field agents, the highest branches of helpers-the nervy Agent Coulson, for example-and of course, the best of the best for the Avengers. But most probably because the Avengers together would have enough power to blow S.H.I.E.L.D up in a second’s passing.
Why should an overruling government care about one single employer that’s working for them?
That’s fueling all their technology and needs?
And who’s frustrated to her wit’s end?
With the destiny of the earth’s future on her shoulders?
That’s right. Nothing.
Exactly what you get a second after you resentfully think this thought to yourself. A fierce slamming of hard skin meeting tabletop nearly upends your freshly filled mug of coffee, jerking your legs against the desk so that the sheaves of papers tremble.
You immediately snap your attention to the person in front of you, the one and only, grand title of Designing and Engineering. In other words, your boss. And he certainly doesn’t seem happy now.
“Miss ______________________,” he barks out harshly, waving a hand over the stacks of paper patiently lining your wobbling desk. “What on earth is all this rubbish?”
His grey slush eyes find the now yellowing stack of coffee stained papers off the corner of your desk. In that instant, you know you’re dead before you can open your mouth in defense.
So you give the truth as best as you can, even though you know you’re in for it.
“I spilled coffee over a part of my work-a mistake, a grave one, I know now. As for the extra sheets of paper, that’s a silly little misunderstanding.” You fib and lace your fingers together delicately, folding them on the top of your desk.
“I’ve rather overslept today and didn’t keep track of my records, so I have yesterday night’s and today’s work to finish on.” You cleanly announce, straightening your posture so you sit absolutely upright. Even while he’s about to blow, your boss can still spot slumping shoulders.
Your superior doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even ask of your welfare and being, which to anyone else, would be necessary, since you were awake to three o’clock in the morning, working furiously to complete all your coworkers’ orders on time.
And he knows you’ve been relentlessly giving your all to your work, since he spotted you in the exact same position in the office night and day. But he doesn’t give a care in the world.
“I don’t have time for your petty excuses, Miss ___________________.” And in one sweep of his hand, he shoves off nearly a fourth of your hard won drawings near the coffee stained spot on your desk. Immediately, some of them soak up parchment color splotches, ruining the meticulous details on every contraption, others curdle up at the edges, and still others turn to sludge in the now cold liquid.
Your boss smiles viciously. “There, don’t you feel better? You’ve gotten a load of work off your hands-I’ve relieved you from some of your duty. I believe a thank you is in motion.”
“Thank you,” you automatically reply, eyes fixated on the stack of drawings that you spent almost the whole night on. You bow slightly towards the heartless man, showing your bland respects. His smirk only becomes more pronounced as he looks upon your helpless state.
“That’s right. I see you’re attempting to learn your manners-it was about time you started,” he calls out behind his back as he turns around.
In his eyes, he has only kindly reprimanded a stupid girl to keep her in check. But in reality, he has no earthly idea what he has started.
As soon as he walks out of the office, several flames spark up like firecrackers in your pupils, as if someone’s struck a flint-and-steel in your eyes. It’s as if a phoenix died in blood instead of fire; the rage in your eyes can’t be contained.
But the instant they appear in your eyes, your cool head calms them down. You can’t go about like this, you can’t afford to lose your temper.
And so mechanically, like an obedient automaton, you set out straight for sketching.
However, inside the silence of your head, your overly stressed brain sends out little electronic waves of tension and anger, violently slashed with ruby red and eye-watering purple, as if your thoughts themselves are bruised as much as your heart.
About a couple hundred miles away, another person is stressing out and is trying desperately to control his temper, but under completely different circumstances.
That is not to say that the task is any less difficult, considering the unbelievably stupid actions that his comrades are participating in now.
“Come on, come on! You can do it!” a cocky—if not a touch sarcastic—voice declares from one of the Tower’s many rooms. Turning around the whitewashed corner, one can find the source of the voice in a matter of seconds.
He’s an average height man with scraggly dark beard stubble dotting all over his lower face and the edge of his chin. What’s unusual about this man is not his casual outfit (faded jeans, sneakers, and simple patterned T-shirt), nor his lack of manners despite his rich surroundings, but that at the center of his shirt, at his chest, a glowing blue core pulses from evergreen to iceberg blue from time to time. The more strange fact is, no one seems to really notice.
“Stark, don’t you think this has gone a touch too stupid-” a female’s voice chips in, only the slightest edge of Russian judging by her statement. This one is a lithe young woman in a tightly fitted black jumpsuit, with fiery red curls tumbling down her head as she crosses her arms.
Deadpan pours from her eyes, most obviously trying to get her colleagues out of another mess. From the looks of things, this isn’t her first time trying.
“Nat, Thor hasn’t gone on this many Poptarts since he raided the supermarkets two months ago due to major sales. Besides, you never know when this sort of thing might happen again.” The man next to her chuckles to himself.
He has a kindly face, marked delicately with healed battle scars and supports a tousled brown, slightly cropped buzzcut, with a black quiver and bow—that would make Katniss Everdeen’s Mockingjay gear look like a child’s daydreams—to match his fitted midnight dark tunic and pants.
“Your sense of humor never fails to amaze me, Agent Barton.” Natasha cuts through, turning her kill-me-now-with-this-idiocy look on the male partner sitting near her.
“Why are we doing this again?” The wide chested, yet tall male sitting across from the inseparable duo curiously asks. On first glance, he seems as if he is an average muscled man in his early twenties, but on second glance, he’s much more.
His blue eyes are the eyes of a naïve child, ironically while going along with a stocky build that would make girls salivate over him until they dehydrated themselves. His dirty blonde hair, a bit wavy at the crest of his head, shakes from side to side as Steve Rogers/Captain America looks on at the eccentric sight.
“I’ll tell you why, Steve.” The green-eyed, dark-haired older man next to him replies, looking over the rim of his silver glasses. Strangely, everyone in the room seems to edge away from him as he says these words, although he seems like a well-educated middle aged professor. “It’s because Tony bribes us with stuff we love, hacks it all up on his credit cards, and makes us drool all over it. The aftermath he orders J.A.R.V.I.S to record as future blackmail.”
Tony Stark, the infamous billionaire, playboy, philatropenrist—aka Iron Man himself—raises his hands in mocking surrender.
“Guilty as charged, Banner.” He snickers approvingly.
“Oof msthre…” a rumbling voice announces, with an unusual muffling noise in the back of his throat. Tony’s eyes light up in anticipation as he watches a blond haired, large chested man with a titanium armor not of this world.
Thor, Norse God of Thunder, would most definitely look intimidating—if not for the shockingly large number of Poptarts stuffed in his mouth.
Why Poptarts? Better not to ask.
“Doesn’t anyone besides Agent Romanoff think that this idea is the essence of pure idiocy?” a slick, oily voice declares, and everyone swivels around in their seats to glare at a raven haired man in impressive dark forest green and gold gilded armor, who has a look of complete disdain on his pale stretched face.
His eyes are Arctic blue, so strikingly bold that one narrow would pierce any glare to pieces, and his midnight ash cape trails behind him silently.
In other words: Loki Laufeyson, Norse God of Mischief, adoptive brother of Thor, and basically an impossibly arrogant prick.
“I’m surprised my brother even agreed to this lunatic deal in the first place.” He quietly announces, his disdainfully lidded eyes only gaining repulse when everyone begins to stare at him.
“Nothing doing, Reindeer Games.” Stark scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “Thor’s amazingly close to beating his record for how many Poptarts he can stuff in his mouth. I’d think you’d like to get a try at that, won’t you?”
“Ydo bueslurrised.” Thor puts in, which no one pays any attention to.
“If you think I’m stupid enough to attempt at such foolish behavior, I’m surprised you can even walk around this Tower and find your way to the main hall.” Loki, God of Mischief shoots Tony with one of his signature death glares.
“That’s probably because the bar’s exceedingly and coincidentally close to the elevator.” Hawkeye smirks, fingering the handle of his simple, yet elegant bow.
“Hmm, wonder how that happened?” Natasha Romanoff, alias Black Widow, groans, and slams her head down on the tabletop frustratingly. Her red curls shake like crisp autumn leaves.
“Hey!” Tony complains. “Pepper made me put the bar there, because she didn’t approve of me putting it only in my room!”
“Your room?” Steve’s eyes widen at this. “You were planning to put the bar in your room?”
“Dear Lord…that wouldn’t have been pretty. Imagine Stark drunk and raving every single day.” Banner guffaws.
“And add to the fact that he’s a wisecracking git.” Romanoff murmurs underneath her breath, earning a proper flipping off from Tony.
“Actually, it wouldn’t be that different.” Loki muses to himself, dodging the vodka bottle that Tony chucks at him with graceful ease.
“You, shut up. You, lighten up. You, keep going.” The billionaire orders, pointing an accusatory finger at Loki, Natasha, and at Thor, who amazingly seems to hold the enormous amount of poptarts in his mouth. And the impossible fact that he's still stuffing himself? So mindblowing it seems next to a wonder.
“What’s the number at again?” Steve asks, his baby blue eyes sparking an innocent curiosity of a child’s that’s extremely disproportionate to his burly size.
“I lost track at fifty-four.” Clint supplies, eyeing the poptart box with interest, as if he’s calculating how fast he can nail the box to the wall with one of his arrows.
“Nah, it was more than eighty-five.” Tony shakes his head in disagreement.
“Couldn’t have been more than a hundred though…” Dr. Banner runs a tired hand through his dark locks.
“You’d be surprised at what my brother can do.” Murmurs the God of Mischief, eyeing Thor’s bulging mouth with disgust written all over his face.
“Well, let’s say the number is at least over ninety. Now, if he can just get to…” Iron Man muses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“AGENTS!” A thundering voice booms out over the Tower, that makes all the Avengers jump in unison, and Thor’s eyes widen and he chokes.
He’s so surprised, in fact, he spews out every single Poptart in his mouth with the speed of a machine gun.
Now, it might seem like a pretty hilarious moment by reading it, but the event itself is as deadly as homicidal maniac opening fire without warning.
“Duck and cover!” Hawkeye shouts, tumbling to the ground in a flash, as each Poptart sails out of the God of Thunder’s mouth like a missile from a sub.
“I told you this was a bad idea!” Natasha yells, jumping out of harm’s way as a lone Poptart sails past her cheek, leaving a scratch mark as thin as a sewing string in its path.
“It wasn’t my idea!” Barton insists as he snaps his bow back, arrow ready to fly, but his face changes from courageous to distraught as he realizes his high-tech quiver is empty.
“It might as well be!” Tony hollers as he ducks under the countertop to avoid any speeding snacks. “And your stupid arrows won’t be much use here, Mockingjay!”
“Hark who’s talking, I distinctly remember you were the one who rounded us all up!” Captain America barks out, sheltering the back of his head protectively. “And at least he’s not the one who’s gotten us into this whole mess!”
And the constant shouting and accusation go on. And on. And ON. Loki rolls his startling blue eyes exasperatedly, so much that one could hear them from a hundred leagues away. The Avengers may be Earth’s mightiest heroes, but they have an outstandingly large lack of logic.
For the son of Odin, how do these people work together? The devilish rouge thinks to himself while safely taking shelter behind a large sofa. Even I cannot figure out how they get along, and that may be saying something, since I know quite a lot.
When the barrage is over—hopefully—the Avengers cautiously creep out of their hiding places, wary to do so. Their eyes scan the room, and dilate widely in mixed emotions when they see the last person they would want to meet in this state.
“How the hell did he get in here without permission?” Tony coughs out, spitting a random Poptart out of his mouth and hacking up a considerable amount of phlegm.
“I believe he just walked towards the elevator and found his way up here judging from all the noise, sir.” J.A.R.V.I.S, Tony Stark’s obedient, faithful—and at times extremely sarcastic—home system/AI announces in his sophisticated and monotone British accent.
“Remind me to suspend all admittance to S.H.I.E.L.D agents,” Stark groans, slowly getting to his feet and cricking his neck painfully. “Or anyone else that I just happen to know and are at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“That would be mostly everyone you meet, sir.”
“Avengers.” Nick Fury, feared leader of S.H.I.E.L.D in his frightening robes and gloves growls, fixing a steely glare with his one good eye. The moody eye patch and scar marked across his serious face does nothing to lighten the mood. “This is what you do to spend your free time?”
“I would like you to note that I am not involved in this situation at all, thank you very much.” Loki helpfully adds in, shuffling away from the leader of S.H.I.E.L.D lazily, but is caught at the scruff of the neck at the last minute.
“Not so fast, Loki. You think that just because you thought this was idiotic you’re getting out of this one? Not likely.”
“Hmm, and since when did I ever say I was in the Avengers?” he asks coolly, cockily raising a thinly branching eyebrow. “I specifically heard you naming the earth’s mightiest heroes, not one benevolent prince that’s in no ways involved with the stupidity of his colleagues.”
Fury releases the Norse God forcefully, choosing instead to vent his anger on the unlucky group that are the Avengers. Besides, he would rather make a choice to blow his top than to negotiate the slimeball’s cunning loopholes.
Barton swears underneath his breath as Nick Fury turns on the group of superheroes, while Natasha gazes up at the Director with no kind of emotion at all. Steve doesn’t blink, nor does Banner or Thor, but Tony seems the most eager to get out of the place.
Loki strolls out of the room, humming to himself as the force of Fury’s shout vibrates the walls of Stark Tower, making the dust shake from the pristine ceiling. His disturbing smile, in nanoseconds, turns into a bored scowl. In all retrospect, he really should not be in the building at all, as the last time he had been here was when he caused a Chitauri invasion on Manhattan.
Dull. That’s the word for his life now. What had he done through the past few years? Made millions of people scream and run for his lives from his actions. Struck a deal with Chitauri and caused chaos everywhere he went.
And where is this feared being now? Cooped up in a tiny tower like hens, accompanied with the people that tried to kill him. Though it was in fact quite amusing to watch the pathetic group known as ‘The Avengers’ bicker and shout amongst themselves.
Not to mention the fact that he enjoyed ticking them off with pranks—which is just an elaborate way of saying that Loki tricks them all the time.
But it’s quite boring to be shut up in a skyscraper tower for more than five months straight. He can’t do anything about it, of course. If he ever so much tries to step over the entrance hall, S.H.I.E.L.D. will knock him down flat with sixty bullets.
Or that irritating AI J.A.R.V.I.S. might alert the puny Midguardians and his one imbecile of a brother. Or if worse comes to worse, they’ll send in the Hulk.
The God of Mischief winces at the thought, and rubs his shoulder tentatively. The pain in his ribs—courtesy of being thrown around on the cement like a paper doll—still hasn’t ebbed out fully.
Yes, nothing has changed from that event.
Well…nothing much has changed….yet.
|Complying with a certain God of Mischief is not an easy task.|
Sherlock x Reader: Red Velvet “Not a word.” Sherlock mutters under his breath as you shuffle dazedly into the messy flat.Sherlock x Reader: Red Velvet by katnisseverdeen4life
“Good morning to you too, Right-Little-Ray-of-Sunshine.” you sarcastically glib, setting the teapot to boil. “Mrs. Hudson’s out today, so I’ll be making you tea this morning.”
“Why bother? I don’t think I’ll be eating today, far too busy.” he replies, and you take a good few seconds to scrutinize him. He’s frightfully pale and thinned from working all night, turned upside down on his armchair as an additional effort to think.
You’re just surprised all the blood in his head hasn’t burst out of his mind palace yet.
“I’m surprised you didn’t take the next few days off, considering…”
His translucent eyes suddenly blink in
Sherlock x Reader: Coffee Run A delicate chink of porcelain startles you from your daily read of the morning paper. You peer over the graying pages to see an austere china set, complete with sugar bowl, set for three.Sherlock x Reader: Coffee Run by katnisseverdeen4life
The absence of a teapot does not go unnoticed.
“Where’s the tea?” you inquire, raising your eyebrows only a hint of an inch upwards towards London’s consulting detective.
Sherlock also raises his own eyebrows, with a touch of cool superiority. “Actually, we’re having coffee today.”
“I don’t see any round here.”
“Very keen observation, (y/n), but I could do well without the additional sarcasm. John!” He calls upstairs to the spare room in a sudden burst of sound. “Get up! I need you down here, we’ve got another case.”
The army doctor stumbles down t
Artistic Differences Chapter 32: WonderlandArtistic Differences Chapter 32: Wonderland by katnisseverdeen4life
I brought you this.
Apparently, it’s a drawing from someone who also went through the same hell as you are right now.
So he knows. They all know. You feel dreadfully exposed and fragile against the glaring knowledge of your superiors.
“Is that person dead?” you laugh with a dull tone, gripping the bed sheets with mangled fingers.
His hesitation is all you need to know.
You can feel the Virus affecting you, shortening your temper and making you squirm in pain as flashes of black and white chords blind your sights.
Artistic Differences Chapter 31: NocturneArtistic Differences Chapter 31: Nocturne by katnisseverdeen4life
A songbird perches outside the windowsill, chirping with bright gaiety of a new morning.
You wish you had a rock to silence the wretched creature.
One couldn’t think of heavier matters, you must shut everything out. Nevertheless, tears would squeeze from your eyes. Songbirds recall love, innocence, and happiness - all of these stolen from you.
You couldn’t hear the animal, but you just know that it’s singing its heart out.
“Beethoven Virus.” Banner announces, pulling out a dossier chock full of avid descriptions, complete with diagnosis sketches and dusty images. “Very rare affliction. Apparently so named after the c
|Enjoy the randomosity of my mind.|
“Violin.” The word escapes his mouth, barely a turn of the head to acknowledge you.
You purse your lips. “Schubert.”
“Will you two keep quiet! You’ve been going on for this for a whole week!” One extremely irritated army doctor snaps, bent over his laptop, no doubt blogging about the second mishap with the great Sherlock Holmes.
Who is currently sitting in the armchair across from you, face completely hidden behind the morning’s paper. He couldn’t send more obvious signals of ignorance.
It’s not like you annoy him all the time. Ever since you’ve been chased away by a psychopathic murderer, and saved by the unstoppable duo of crime-solving – one tall detective in a black trench coat and blue scarf and one army doctor with a dark leather jacket – you’ve been sticking around to John’s insistence, living in the flat above them, 221C. Of course, the downstairs flat is all the more exciting, and you’ve never had a bored day in your life, what with all the gunshots and foul scents coming from the latest experiments.
The doctor seems to like you well enough, but not so the consulting detective. Every single move you make seems to morph into a trail of disgust for the man. Your tendency to make tea? Laughable. Your love of books? More like what a childish romantic would act as. And music? Forget about it.
Well, he didn’t persist to leave you out on the street. That’s a start.
You sigh against your palms, rubbing your temples with a touch of exasperation. This is the third time this week you asked, and he still won’t let you have a piano. No less a recorder.
“I don’t know why you’re asking this repeatedly, ____________________.” Sherlock announces, still reading over the headlines with a bored air. “The answer to your question is no, and you really know better than to say that I can change my answers.”
“You’re skimming the newspaper.” You point out a little to irk him and to steer the question away. For now. “No new murders?”
“None.” The highly functioning sociopath abruptly throws the newspaper to the left, eyes wild with frustration. “Why is it that this city can’t function properly when it needs to?”
“In other cases, when you’re bored?”
“Well, you could always play your violin…” you slyly advise him, trying to keep a growing smirk from your lips.
The younger Holmes shakes his head firmly, his chiseled features growing more prominent in the sunlight. “I know what you’re doing. And it’s not going to work.”
Your voice sounds defensive now, on the rise to transforming into a yell. “Don’t you think that it’s a tiny bit unfair that you have an instrument to play on, and I don’t?”
“Mrs. Hudson always complains about the noise I make with my violin when I’m practicing. I don’t think that adding a piano into the mix would be recommended for her heart.” The stoic man taps his fingers against the armrest impatiently. “Not to mention that you don’t seem the type to play.”
You’re about to stand up from the chair, and tell the consulting detective that he wasn’t excused from his chainsaw sounding practice sessions with his violin, when John comes to the rescue. With an added glare to both of you.
“What he means is, that we might not have enough room in the flat.” You consider this a wise comment, taking in the amount of clutter Sherlock’s gathered in for his cases. A necessity, he insists. Everything from the skull on the mantelpiece to the letters held in place by a kitchen knife is for a case, or otherwise, a distraction to pass the time. Now if only he can explain the alarming content in his bookshelves...
The man with no heart looks up from his thinking stance, hands still taut together in their usual praying motion. “What do you need a piano for, anyway? I didn’t know you could play.”
You start a little bit. Since you’ve moved in, the detective’s hardly asked a question about yourself, nothing about what you prefer, or dislike. No curiosity at all about your hobbies or what you do for a living. The sudden change of pace is startling, not mention uncharacteristic.
“Would you have cared if I told you?” The sarcasm in your voice drips and oozes in bucket-sized amounts. “You’d have probably erased it from your bloody mind palace, Sherlock.”
A flicker of hurt spasms the neutralized face in front of you, and you wonder if you’ve miscalculated into thinking the man’s heartless.
“I need it for a new piece I’m composing.”
Sherlock’s instantly on his feet, standing up so swiftly that he towers over you. You blink, resisting the urge to take a few unsteady steps backward.
“So you compose.”
“Yes.” You nod, wonder what the highly functioning sociopath is up to now.
He’s already reaching for his signature black trench coat, tying the blue scarf round his neck. “That’s a different story from playing as a hobby. I’ll make an exception for you only once.”
And with a blink of an eye, he’s gone.
You stand stock still for a moment, then nearly jump for a second time when the dark-haired man pops back in, looking at you with mild amusement. “Coming?”
A cup of lukewarm tea in your hands, a charcoal pencil behind your left ear, and a towering pile of blank sheet music for your necessities. All the components of your composing environment. Debussy’s Arabesque Nº1 plays softly in the background, a nice soundtrack for your own music making. You pick out random chords nonchalantly on your new piano, taking care to stroke the keys tenderly. It wasn’t new, granted, and the men who carried it up to the flat nearly broke their backs by climbing two flights of stairs, but it was still a functioning instrument.
One hand touches your shoulder, and you barely glance up from the sheet you’re scrutinizing carefully. “If you’re thinking of trying to warn me because Sherlock wants to return this thing, you may as well put it off your mind. I’ve already cleaned it and stacked sheet music on it. It’s already functioning as my instrument.”
“You could just tell me yourself, you know.” A familiar voice answers back. The violinist draws up a chair to sit beside you, a fairly uncharacteristic move that makes you raise your eyebrows. Since when did Sherlock Holmes converse regularly with others besides John Watson and a rare few others?
He takes no notice of your bemused expression, merely stating as his eyes graze over your work. “I hadn’t known you played before.”
“I thought you were John.”
“Hardly. He was still working on that Sudoku puzzle of his on the morning’s paper. Child’s play.”
You can’t help but give a small smirk. “And I assume you snitched it and filled it out for him?”
“So that’s why John’s sulking up somewhere?”
“Oh, you know me so well.” The satisfied expression slips from his face. “Though I can’t say the other way round.”
You shrug your shoulders. What the man thinks of you can hardly be called important in your book. “I prefer to work in mystery.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
At least five minutes have passed, with no noise interrupting the utter silence except the scratching of your pencil tip against paper, and the occasional passing of a car down the street. As another three minutes pass, you wonder if something is wrong. Sherlock’s never gone two minutes with another person without talking. Least of all a person whom he dislikes. You attempt to make little conversation, while you get the sensation in your stomach that something’s quite clearly off.
“Who are your favorite composers?”
“Mozart.” The answer comes without hesitation.
The temptation to smile comes in full force. Bending over to dot a particularly important staccato note, you expertly hide your expression. “Birds of a feather, hmm?”
“Don’t be so fresh, I do enjoy Stravinsky and Verdi once in a while.”
“I like Chopin and Debussy. Much more peace at mind.”
Now it’s the consulting detective’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Never thought you being a hopeless romantic.”
“What’s wrong with liking quiet pieces? Isn’t the definition of tranquility in that massively egotistical mind of yours?” you quip, leaning over the keys to play out a simple little melody – plain, but resounding.
“If you mean absolute boredom, then yes.”
John comes up to Sherlock at that moment, informing him that they have a case to work on. Apparently a series of kidnappings concerning technology. Whenever people had clicked onto a certain Wi-Fi link, they’d instantly be gone without a trace.
You’re still at it when they troop into the flat in the late afternoon, penciling in a couple of eighth notes as they arrive, amidst Lizst’s Liebestraum. Mrs. Hudson had kindly laid you out a tray of biscuits and a cup of tea while you were working, which you haven’t touched.
“Hello, boys.” You say without looking up, as they hang up their coats. “Solved another big one?”
“Apparently the disappearances weren’t kidnappings at all. The people would just be abducted to some other random place, having no idea where they were.” John sighs. “I’ve got no idea why some people treat others like nothing.”
“Mmm.” You mutter absentmindedly, tapping your pencil’s graphite point, already half-absorbed in your work. The consulting detective looks up from untying his scarf, struck by the sight of the girl sitting at his desk. If he hadn’t known, he could have sworn it’s him, with the same concentrated expression and complete obliviousness to others he used on a difficult case.
Dinner is ignored. You now have two meals going stone cold in front of you, despite both John and Mrs. Hudson’s urgings for you to eat. But you refuse. You’ve gone through nights like this before, you can handle a skipped meal or two. Hours pass, and the pile of crumpled music sheets grows higher until it overflows the wastebasket. Sherlock pretends to browse for criminal activity on his laptop, but keeps sneaking glances at you. The both of you don’t respond when John retires to bed, and keep the growing silence for at least an hour and a half.
You spend another fifteen minutes drawing up ties and whole notes before abandoning your work, throwing it to the ground in defeat. “I give up. This is hopeless. Besides, it’s past midnight, and I’m practically sleep deprived.”
“Now that’s no way for a composer to act.” Concern rises in the detective’s eyes as you stumble to your feet, bleary eyed. He notes the bags underneath her eyes, and small spasms in her wrists. Hasn’t eaten since breakfast this morning. “You haven’t eaten in hours.”
“A necessity.” You mumble out, rubbing your eyes. “Besides, you’re not one to talk.”
The detective doesn’t say anything, knowing all too well that she’s right. He hardly consumed anything while on a case, determined to find out the solution, whether hell comes to pay. As ____________________ goes to bed, he waits a few minutes before he can hear the lock clicking in place, then springs up from the couch, abandoning his laptop. Careful not to leave anything out place, he rifles through the pianist’s compositions and symphonies.
In the morning, you stumble to breakfast, only to be greeted with a certain consulting detective, who shoves your music sheets in your face, now marked up with his own annotations.
“Here. I figured out your problem. You spend too much time on the quiet classical era, just as I suspected. It takes a toll on your personality, too, but that’s hardly relevant right now. You need some spontaneous composers, like Brahms or Bartok.”
You’re still reeling from the comment about your personality, not to mention that he’s figured out your musical dilemma much quicker than you would have in a month’s time. Perhaps he and Mozart weren’t that divided in musical talent after all. The thought makes you seem small and insignificant, and a mere child trying to compose under the eye of one prodigious musician who’s put together dozens of wonderful songs.
“Oh.” You say in a quiet whisper, sorting through the sheets with the manner of a maestro who’s just had his prime composition filched on the eve of his debuting grand concerto. “Surprise me, then.”
You slap down the sheets, color flushing into your face a little too quickly. And it’s not because of embarrassment. “Why don’t you play a piece, if you want to me to have inspiration? Everyone in a hundred meter radius from 221B must know that spontaneity is your strong suit. I suspect that’s also a contributing factor of John calling you a drama queen.”
Sherlock frowns a little. Here he had thought he’d done the girl a favor, and she’s responding back in hostility. “No thank you, I’m not in the mood for playing today.”
“Play me a song, or I’ll throw your violin out the window.”
This alarming threat finally makes him snap to focus, and he stares at you with wide eyes. Sure enough, you already have one hand on the curved scroll handle, holding the instrument out the flat window so that it dangles precariously. You needn’t be the world’s only consulting detective to know the facts. One drop, and the instrument would smash horribly against the pavement, wood splintering beyond repair.
“You wouldn’t.” he calmly states, but he meets your coolly drawn pupils, and knows that she has no hesitation about dropping his precious violin. She may be withdrawn and completely opposite of him, but when it comes to music, the both of you are scarily alike. Diligent, composing pieces whenever they can, and not afraid to sacrifice certain aspects for their own inspirations.
“You know better than to say that.” Your hand begins to loosen their grip, which is already slack to begin with. It almost causes him to have a panic attack.
“What are you suggesting?”
“First, don’t ever try to change my preferences in music. To each their own, and every musician has different tastes in style.”
Sherlock curses himself for this. He should have known that ____________________________ had a certain attachment for a particular type of music. And he had prodded in and called it boring, like an obnoxious boor.
“I’m assuming there’s more to this agreement?”
“I want you to play with me.”
For a moment, he thinks he might have hearing problems. “Sorry?”
“I said it once, I’m not repeating myself.”
The question forming in his mind escapes his mouth before he can stop it; “Why?”
A wry smirk is made in his direction. “You said you wanted spontaneity.”
For the next three months, all of Baker Street hears the protesting screeches of a violin and the pounding of a piano every morning, from dawn to dusk, even stretching into the early hours after midnight. There’s the occasional grace period where Sherlock has to dash off to an urgent case, but most of his free time – or when he’s bored – he spends time composing with you. John now spends more time over at Mary’s than usual, but you can’t complain. The less people bother you when you’re in a music session, the better.
The work you two get done could hardly be called amateur work. Both of you had clear experience in the area, and had clear-set minds about how to finish pieces or make them perfect.
The problem is that both your musical viewpoints clash against each other. Often.
“What do you mean, that’s not the right chord?” you say in frustration, smashing the keys down angrily to face one calmly faced consulting detective. “That’s in the best chord there is. No other.”
The highly functioning sociopath lowers his precious Stradivarius, taking his sharp chin off the chin rest. “It doesn’t balance well with the melody of the violin.”
“I can’t help it if your instrument tries to hog the song.”
“What is so troublesome about trying to make harmony?” Sherlock questions, frowning down at you like a reprimanding teacher. “You need it for crucial tunes. If the melody was just there, then it would sound bare-boned.”
“It’s…” you struggle to get the words out. “Never mind. It’s silly.”
“I don’t think something would be silly if it’s bothering you so much that you’re scraping your nails against the keys.”
You glance down at your own hands in bewilderment, and sure enough, they seem intent on clawing off the keys entirely. Gingerly, you remove them from the piano, massaging them into your palm. You don’t make eye contact with your fellow musician, staring at the piano instead while you talk.
“I don’t mind harmony. It’s just that I feel a little insignificant playing it with you. You’re fantastic with the violin, and clearly a capable musician. It’s childish of me, but you always seem like the center of attention, even without music, and I don’t really think I can keep up. You’ve got the observance of a hawk, and a nearly photographic memory, with heightened logistics beyond average functioning. How am I to compare?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m hardly the center of attention. People despise me.”
“But they see you.” You smile a little sadly. “No one sees me. I’m the background pianist.”
Silence cracks between the two of you for a while. Then Sherlock speaks up, a little hesitant, “I can see you.”
“You don’t count. You don’t think I’m something that can attract attention.”
For one moment, you can swear that the man starts, and then, as if you’d said nothing of importance, continues on in the monotone voice he always possesses. “Why don’t we make the harmony the center of the song, rather than the melody?”
You tilt your head to the side, a little startled at the change of music tactics, then consider the option. “It would be rather unique. But I haven’t ever tried that area of planning before.”
“Well, you’ll hardly get a better chance at breaking tradition.”
The plan for harmony being the main focus of the piece works out more smoothly than you thought. The whole composition wraps up in about the timespan of two days, and the both of you even make a second one. John and Mary heard both works, when you finally announced that you were finished with making the music, for now. Much to John’s relief. Oh, and Mrs. Hudson, too, of course. She did say it was lovely that Sherlock had you for a musical companion, and maybe could help him deter some his darker habits now that he’d found someone after all this time.
At which point Sherlock ushered her out of the room and made you cough a little discreetly.
But you have no idea how many people would listen to your piece, until one fateful night, when you listen to classical music on the radio to pass the time, and Sherlock’s shut down in deduction mode, eyes faintly closed as he lies on the couch, in his massive mind palace. The next song on the station makes you bolt straight up, hardly believing the sounds coming through your ears.
“Did you…” you turn up the volume on the radio, staring at the consulting detective, who now has a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “No.”
“You issued this out to the national radio? I’m afraid to ask how.”
Sherlock’s smirk turns into more of a smile now. “My brother’s got a lot of high connections in miscellaneous businesses. They arranged to have our piece playing on their stations.”
The theme now turns to the other piece that the two of you have arranged together, a sad, melancholy tone that the detective insisted on playing. It has a slow waltz-like tone to it, deep and throbbing, and vaguely familiar. Without any indication or warning sign, the highly functioning sociopath gets up from his seat and offers you a hand to dance. You look at it dubiously.
“Since when do you dance?”
“On the contrary. I tend to love dancing. And what’s the use of playing music if someone isn’t dancing to it?”
“That sounds a lot like a line from a certain vendetta film.”
“It’s hardly the fifth of November, ___________________________. But there doesn’t need to be a revolution for dances.”
To this, you have no other argument. So you comply, taking Sherlock’s outstretched hand in yours, allowing him to pull you up so that your head barely reaches the top of his chin. Soon the two of you are waltzing around the room, in tune to the music that the both of you have created. The violin and the piano add together in a harmonic session, each one playing in where awkward time gaps should be. You lean your head against Sherlock’s shoulder despite your wariness, wondering why he’s acting so bizarrely. Putting your pieces on public radio and offering you to dance? Why is he suddenly so generous? Your companion stiffens at your action, but relaxes a moment later.
You snap to attention at the music, recognizing the melody for the first time. “Isn’t this the theme you dedicated for the Woman?”
“Yes and no.”
Something uncomfortable begins to squirm in your throat. “I believe an explanation is in order.”
“This is a piece that I took roots from the original piece. The first one had no piano. This version is different, and it’s dedicated to someone else entirely.”
You glance out the window, trying not to look conflicted. Night’s falling fast upon London. “Got yourself a new woman, then?”
“You could say that.” The softness in his voice is so faint that you’re afraid that he’s dropping off to sleep. You raise your head, wondering what has gotten into him, when you’re met with his lips crashing down on yours. You make a small exclamation of surprise, but soon tiptoe up on your heels to lengthen the kiss.
“Oh, god, I didn’t need to see that.”
The both of you break away to see John standing in front of the doorway, slightly openmouthed. You smile a little embarrassingly while Sherlock demands to know where he was all this time.
Sherlock Holmes in love. Wonder what the papers will say about that.
When you finish playing, yet again, the composition that the whole country’s now salivating over, you find that the consulting detective’s leaning over you, studying your messily inked notes across the grand staff. His face is unfathomable.
“God, your handwriting’s a hopeless case. And now that I hear it again, why so many chords? I hardly think there’ll be a lacking of noise, considering the din this one already makes.”
“Shut up, you like it.”
“I do. Draw up an extra violin one for me, will you?”
“Way ahead of you.”
|Trying to compose a piece with London's highly functioning sociopath isn't easy.|
The scratching of your delicate reed pen drowns out the sounds of your thoughts, a soothing noise that breaks the stifling silence of the room.
“Why would such a child be awake at a starless dawn?”
You do not flinch at the cold tone the voice carries, only keep your eyes fixed steadily on your paper. One jump of the hand, and you could have made an ugly slash across the parchment.
“You should be sleeping, my lord.”
Thranduil glides without a sound into the room, as always, dressed in robes of sewn starlight, with the ever-present crown spined with rowan berries. “As should you. No one should be up so late when the moon dies for the sun.”
The tip of your pen scrawls out a particularly long flourish, a trailing path of glowing ink. “But I am no king of Mirkwood.”
To this, your superior has no answer.
About five minutes pass when he begins to talk again. Thranduil’s bone white fingers dance across the pages, flitting from one parchment to another. An elegant twist of the wrist, and he has one of your written papers in his hands. His eyes scan the ink with the indifferent demeanor he always possessed. “Your writing skills are exquisite. Some creatures’ penmanship - a rare few, luckily - are nothing short of atrocious.”
You duck your head back into the massive pile of documents, trying not to make eye contact with those piercing blue pupils. “You’re too kind, my lord.”
“No, merely speaking the truth.” Thranduil answers silkily, tilting his pale face to you with a unfathomable expression.
A faint smile that doesn’t quite touch your lips forms on the mouth. The smile instantly vanishes as you stab yourself absentmindedly with the pen, puncturing through paper and skin alike.
You exclaim a little, watching small droplets of blood mix in with the handwriting you’ve just so carefully scrawled. A quick glance at your hand shows that your hand’s in no condition to write anymore, expanded twice their size and bitten red. You abruptly wipe away any smears, pressing your palm to the seat, out of sight.
Unfortunately, Thranduil notices this, and his brow furrows slightly.
“How long has it been since you started your work?”
“It is of little importance.” you hastily answer, trying to formulate answers off the top of your head.
Your hand lifts up on on its own accord, and you glance surreptitiously upwards to find the cause; it’s held at the edges delicately by a pair of milky fingers.
“You cannot carry on writing if your fingers are swollen.” the King remarks, and you wince as he presses down on a tender spot on your palm. “Not even an incompetent calligrapher would be able to write this way.”
“I assure you, My King, I am capable of doing my duty. You should not care for such a lesser being than I, least of all a scribe.” You murmur in protest, keeping your eyes fixed at the insurmountable number of scrolls you had left.
Goosebumps erupt over the exposed patch of skin between pen and sleeve cuff. This time, you turn, startled, to Thranduil, who now brushes a bloodless pair of lips across your wrist, looking at you with cool blue eyes.
Have you ever tried something other than shooting the poor wall?
If London participated to my expectations, then yes.
Go out with John.
He’s gone on to Edinburgh for the holidays.
Update your blog.
Why bother? No one remotely intelligent reads it anymore.
Read a book.
Books are time travel portals that you can get sucked into and never leave. Please tell me how any of that is considered dull.
You’re a hopeless romantic, (y/n). Next thing you’ll be saying is that characters come to life next to you.
Scratch that. Time travel portals doesn’t seem right. How about a window to the past?
Like I said, hopeless romantic.
At your service.
I doubt you’ll find a book to catch my interest. The world is so lacking of stimulating literature nowadays, everyone’s so dim.
Doesn’t mean I can’t try.
Don’t attempt to. Your definition of trying is like a half-baked attempt at a souffle.
I burned the thing because you keep texting me. Don’t think that you’re not to blame in this situation.
Shame. You would have really liked Lisbeth.
Oh, no one. Just a main character that’s the greatest computer hacker in Sweden with a photographic memory, who dresses up in dark punk clothes so people underestimate her, and hates the police for being so incompetent with their crime work.
The novel she’s in is called The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, if you were wondering.
Are you all right?
...This better be a damn good book.
It is a well written book.
And you say that I don’t know you well.
The author might be one of the only intelligent people remaining on this planet.
He’s dead, Sherlock.
Pity. Only goes to show how human intellect is diminishing alarmingly.
I’m assuming you finished the book? No, wait, don’t tell me. You probably finished the whole trilogy.
As a matter of fact, I did not.
But you just said…
I know what I said.
Then why haven’t you read it?
I read a few parts of the first chapter.
Please do not tell me that you skimmed this novel.
I don’t skim.
So what do you call the time when you went through hundreds of books for a code?
That was for a case.
I want you to read it to me.
Mother’s had enough now, Sherlock.
I am being serious.
So am I. Why would you want me to read it?
Because you’re the only one closest to the flat now, and John’s just gone away to get the milk again.
So I’m just your newest distraction?
Yes. Would it help if I told you I’ve never been read a story before?
On my way.
Why did you stop?
Yes, why would I ever stop reading when I’ve got a bloody sore throat with the risk of collapsing of sleep deprivation?
It was just getting good. I believe you paused when this Lisbeth character so eloquently said that she would give someone, quote on quote, “a fat lip if they ever called me Pippi Longstocking on a newspaper placard.”
You and Lisbeth would have gotten along fabulously.
The fact that she is fictional makes it impossible. Go on, keep reading.
We’re at the middle of Chapter 2.
Your point being?
One chapter is approximately thirty or forty pages.
I’m well aware of the amount of paper in one section of a novel.
We’re going to keep at this all night if you don’t stop.
Are you going to?
Why are you texting me when I’m only a few feet away from you?
I do recall it’s a habit of some people.
You are not ‘some people’, Mr. Holmes.
Worth a shot. I’m only texting you because you’d have to speak to answer me. You do need your voice for reading, after all.
What makes you so sure that I want to read today?
Judging by your shoddy appearance, with only a drab outfit that’s clearly not been laundered a few days, and going barefoot on the dusty floors, you’re not going anywhere. We additionally left on a cliffhanger, and I clearly remember you saying that you couldn’t live without at the resolution to any of those. The girl’s name was Harriet, I recall.
Yes, police, I have an emergency, a gender-bent Lisbeth Salander is watching and analyzing my every move.
Are you implying that you’re Blomkvist?
I wasn’t implying anything. I could be someone else in the book, as far as you know.
Your sarcasm begs to differ.
Playing around with deductions. You must be really bored.
Read the part about Harriet. Now.
Thinking. Who in the family could have murdered Harriet? And those numbers...they’re certainly not bank accounts - I know the Swedish system - nor are they dates, birthdays, or mathematical sequences. The fact that she had this in her precious book is even more strange. She wouldn’t have marked up something treasured like that. It must have been enormously important.
What about the names?
All similar names. But, as Blomkvist reports, there’s nothing on any of them. It’s so frustrating to have such little information.
And now you can understand a small part of me, for a change.
Hardly a change.
I admit Lisbeth is slowly gaining my respect.
Thorough, isn’t she?
A needle-point comb, if you want melodramatics. Who would have thought she would have the head to outline such a complex plan?
That’s nothing until you see what she’s up to in the later chapters of the novel.
She’s quick-witted and well trained in her abilities.
That’s the nicest thing I ever heard you say about someone.
Who isn’t real, may I remind you.
But this Largsson certainly seems to enjoy prolonging the inevitable.
Oh, come on. It’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re going to fall in love, but they haven’t met just yet, but some twisted fate joins them together. Utterly cliche.
Yes and no.
So you’re going to tell me nothing unless you read from the book itself?
I cannot believe I’ve been reduced to this.
Welcome to the book obsession stage.
Not even one hint?
They still haven’t met yet. It’s been eleven or twelve chapters, this is getting ridiculous. Don’t tell me Largsson puts their meeting in media res.
Tell me now.
Just one detail.
You asked me to read it to you; this is how I go through stories.
I can’t even look at you.
You want me to keep going?
You are a demented extremist.
I’m surprised at you. I’d thought this’d be your cup of tea. I mean, for me it’s just horrendous, but...
No, not the murders. The mystery. I’ve been trying to think about it for nights on end, and then you go and spoil the solution for me.
You didn’t solve it out in the end, didn’t you?
Hold on, I have to pause for a minute. Forgot the bookmark in my room.
Stop laughing. I know you’re giggling up there.
Our famous consulting detective hadn’t gotten a clue of where to go, if not for a Pippi Longstocking in punk gear. This is hysterical.
I thought you said she was clever.
I’m not saying that she’s stupid, I’m having the time of my life because this means Lisbeth’s smarter than you are. And she’s not even real.
Yes, rub salt into the wound, why don’t you?
She’s has an extraordinary organized mindset, I don’t see why she doesn’t have a mind palace of her own. She’s not tidied on physical aspects, but really, who cares about physical aspects today? And she can wreck a person from the inside out if they’re criminals, yet she doesn’t go to the police, because she understands that they’re so utterly incompetent at what they do. And she doesn’t consider herself good or bad.
You know, this is the very reason why I recommended this to you.
Because we’re almost alike?
Because you’re both unstoppable dragonslayers.
Obvious. So obvious. I’m close to slapping myself in the face. I should have seen the twist a mile away.
Can I help?
Already finished, thank you.
No you didn’t.
I don’t see how you know.
Your hands aren’t bleeding.
So, if anyone slapped that face, they’d cut themselves on your cheekbones.
For God’s sake. Just read the conclusion.
You really do care about Lisbeth, don’t you? The book isn’t even about the reveal about Harriet, anymore.
I wonder how long it will take me to read that final part on my own.
No, I wouldn’t.
A reasonable girl to the end.
How? Emotions are merely a counterpart of our actions, (y/n), I thought you would know that by now.
She never really trusts him again after that.
It’s an excellent decision. People are too unpredictable for their own good.
So why have you trusted me to read this story?
Because you chose to stick to your advice until the very end, despite my comments that must have wavered your stance.
Not sure I can compare with Lisbeth’s determinedness.
Yes, but you’re real.
A pity, really.
Conversing with fictional characters? Now we’re getting delusional.
As if you hadn’t been thinking about the Swedish hacker for days on end, Sherlock.