Robert Frobisher (become_music) wrote in spinningcompass, @ 2013-01-02 22:22:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !closed |
Who: Robert Frobisher and Q.
Where: On the roof of Flat#1.
What: Reincarnates of the same soul meet. Stuff happens.
When: Wednesday evening.
Rating: High?
Open: No.
Status: In Progress.
He acquired Sherlock's phone for the time being, but failed to bring up the enthusiasm needed to properly appreciate such a marvel, so he slips it back where he's found it -hoping that its temporary absence won't go back to bite him back up the arse. Probably not, because Sherlock's clearly smitten with him or else he would have left him to die- He casts one last look at his lover, who's blissfully sleeping the hours away and then picks up his pants, puts them on, attaches the suspenders. Then his shirt, waistcoat, scarf and trench coat - everything that he can wear without it falling off his body, everything but his beat up trilby. But it's his own shoes he puts on, his own socks. Quietly though, quietly. And because his dearest Sixsmith is sure to panic when he wakes up to find him gone, he reaches for pen and paper, jots down the words needed and puts it on his pillow. He's sure to find it there. Yes, yes. And he tiptoes out of the room, quickly slips out of the apartment before his absence can go unnoticed. He can't deal with the obvious questions today. He doesn't want anyone's ever watchful eyes on him. He needs to breathe. And he needs clarity, desperately craves it. The elevator brings him most of the way and he climbs the last of the stairs with an energy he thought he'd lost a long time ago. The air is cold, but he moves to the edge of the roof, sits down at the ledge, lets his legs dangle into thin air. Because he's never been afraid of the things that most people retreat. He's sure others will call it a reckless thing to do, this quickly after what he's done. But he'll be fine. There's no plans to jump - at least not from this height. He's still likely to survive, likely to suffer. No. Fingers reach into his pockets and dig out a crooked cigarette and lighter. And he's about to light his cigarette when the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. But not in a bad way. It's actually strangely comforting and he looks back, only to see his twin. |