( Sherlock watches as the watch slowly comes together, piece by piece, the other man's personal image coming together in a parallel procession as well while he speaks. Tells him a story. But it's not just a story, obviously, it's a puzzle piece. Unwillingly (because certain compulsions are weaknesses, he knows it well enough), his mind jumps back to his own childhood. Being told time and again how stupid he was, how ordinarily blank, that he'd never measure up. Though Sherlock doesn't exactly relish the chance to see his own reflection in a man who takes what people unknowingly offers him - because naturally, that's what serial killers do - there's a part of him that nearly aches at the thought.
Imagine actually finding out that your initial hypothesis - your own ordinariness - is wrong. Faulty. Imagine rising above it, until for instance, you can make tiny pieces of glittering brass float in the air simply by willing them to do so.
Indeed, they've both been there, in their own, particular ways. )
Yes.
( His gaze slips away, the intensity of the situation (what are they both and how in the world do they correlate?) prompting a need for some sort of respite, if only just a mental one. He thinks about the watch on the table, whole again, about Sylar's hand rising, his fingers dancing in the air. Then, he takes a deep breath and re-establishes eye-contact again. )
Years ago, I would have.
( Then came crime. Addiction. And in between, long periods of soul-crumbling depression and boredom. He's resigned himself to those two existential extremes, to the point of not knowing whether any other reality might even exist for him. He adds, voice contemplative, rougher than Sylar's, speaking plainly of the smokes he no longer indulges in: )
Inevitably, boredom will find you. No matter what you do - ( Nodding at the candle, then at the watch. ) - it never really stops.
no subject
Imagine actually finding out that your initial hypothesis - your own ordinariness - is wrong. Faulty. Imagine rising above it, until for instance, you can make tiny pieces of glittering brass float in the air simply by willing them to do so.
Indeed, they've both been there, in their own, particular ways. )
Yes.
( His gaze slips away, the intensity of the situation (what are they both and how in the world do they correlate?) prompting a need for some sort of respite, if only just a mental one. He thinks about the watch on the table, whole again, about Sylar's hand rising, his fingers dancing in the air. Then, he takes a deep breath and re-establishes eye-contact again. )
Years ago, I would have.
( Then came crime. Addiction. And in between, long periods of soul-crumbling depression and boredom. He's resigned himself to those two existential extremes, to the point of not knowing whether any other reality might even exist for him. He adds, voice contemplative, rougher than Sylar's, speaking plainly of the smokes he no longer indulges in: )
Inevitably, boredom will find you. No matter what you do - ( Nodding at the candle, then at the watch. ) - it never really stops.