Her dark rope of hair, still wet, evokes a sharp snap of sound each time the brush is pulled through. It's like counting the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. Sherlock remembers, in a split-second of asymmetrical memory, waiting for the rumble of thunder after a lightning strike with his dog, Redbeard, by his side. The Irish Setter had always quaked during thunderstorms. Sherlock remembered holding the animal in his arms in the window of the family seat, the thick paws smelling of ozone and sweet hay, as he attempted to soothe his friend through the worst of the squall.
A strange memory, that. Sherlock blinks it away and he will not think on it again.
He replaces his teacup precisely on the saucer. There is a chip in the porcelain, he notes, probably from being rattled about in the cabinet. The chip clangs off something in his empathetic awareness and Sherlock is suddenly and acutely aware of her discomfort.
Lightning flashes again on the horizon. The motorbike, revving in the distance, is joined by a pair of others.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2020-09-19 03:18 am (UTC)A strange memory, that. Sherlock blinks it away and he will not think on it again.
He replaces his teacup precisely on the saucer. There is a chip in the porcelain, he notes, probably from being rattled about in the cabinet. The chip clangs off something in his empathetic awareness and Sherlock is suddenly and acutely aware of her discomfort.
Lightning flashes again on the horizon. The motorbike, revving in the distance, is joined by a pair of others.
"I'll keep watch until morning," he says.