Nobody is smart but Daryl Hockney (the_automaton) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-02-17 12:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | face, sherlock holmes |
Who: Tim and Daryl
What: Daryl puts her nose where it doesn’t belong
Where: Tim’s Apartment
When: 2/17 (Thursday), around two o’clock
Warnings: Nosy Daryl and Angry Tim
Over the last few days, Daryl had found her thoughts returning to Tim’s erratic and out of character behaviors a few weeks prior. There had been no resolution, no ending, and that didn’t sit well with her. Every beginning had an ending. Every event had an explanation. So on Thursday, after taking Toby out for a walk, she drove to the Aubade with her copy of Tim’s key and her set of lockpicks in her bag.
The door man was used to her by now, just giving her a nod as she entered. She climbed the stairs carefully, keeping her hands at her sides. Though she knew that she was protected from the memories that lingered in the stair well, she couldn’t bear even the smallest risk of exposure. Though aerobic exercise wasn’t her strong suit, she rushed up the stairs, uncomfortable with the ghosts that followed her to the seventh floor.
Standing outside the door to 405, she took a deep breath, removing one glove. Just to be sure, she pressed a hand to the doorway, closing her eyes. Time moved in reverse, taking her back past passersby and dead silence. Her first encounter with Tim and Harry was as they left, leaving the apartment empty. With a smirk, she slid her key into the lock and opened it, moving smoothly inside.
The entire apartment was open to her, nothing hidden from her objective eye. She locked the door behind her, looking about the foyer as she debated where to start. The bedroom was always a safe place to begin an investigation. People kept important things close, afraid of what might happen if they slipped out of sight. So she hurried up the stairs, rounding the corner and slipping easily into the bedroom.
First, she removed her gloves, setting them down on the bed. She moved through the room carefully, touching flat surfaces and soaking up memories upon memories that lingered in the furniture. Life transformed into an experience concentrated inside the seat of her mind. Figures moved back and forth, puppets in an elaborate play without a script. Within five minutes, she had lost herself in the past. She was no longer a member of the present, but rather a mind that floated through events that had already happened. She read the past as if it were written in a book, carefully taken down and preserved.
Without realizing, she wandered the perimeter of the room, pausing as she saw something noteworthy: Tim stooped over his bedside end table, expression grim, closing the top drawer. Pulling back from the wall, she looked at the small end table, slowly approaching it. She sat down on the bed beside her gloves, pulling the drawer open with a puzzled expression on her face. There was a great deal of junk inside, old socks and crumpled-up receipts. She pushed them aside, digging about until her fingers touched a simple envelope. Her mind filled with faces, Tim’s and someone else’s in slow succession.
Pursing her lips, she pulled the envelope out of the drawer, settling it on her lap. There was no doubt that this was of grave importance. Tim’s expressions were anxious, upset, fearful. She opened it, immediately greeted by a photograph of the blonde girl - Poppy. Notes and more photographs were stuffed inside, all seemingly with the same origin. Brow creased, she settled on the bed as she surveyed the materials, using both her eyes and her mind.