#hateslosing

that being said, near does not think poorly of the man. he’d only met him once before through a monitor -- & he’d understood the things he heard. understood them, & could translate them into his own body as his fingers pressed individual puzzle pieces into their homes without thought. even with this understanding, hearing L speak one time was inadequate to win his respect or the sense of anticipation that had otherwise filled the room.  unfortunate that this lack of anticipation should be why he was the golden ticket winner to have this follow-up meeting. near sits cross-legged, twisting his hair tight against the skin of his finger. he doesn’t much like to meet people. but he closes his eyes for a moment, listens to quiet-spoken silence - broken by the sound of porcelain & liquid’s being poured & liquid’s being disrupted . . . by what near assumes is too much sugar.          ‘          cavities don’t appeal to me very much. neither does this meeting. but i am in no rush.       ‘

truthfully, charles couldn’t help but wonder what sort of nonsense this man was going on about. liking oneself? in this economy? he must have been absolutely mad. of course, he didn’t let such disdain show on his face, a perfect mask of sinister calm over his features.

        His eyebrows furrowed at the question as the detective’s gaze rested on the cup of tea he was holding in between pale fingers. His mind now beginning to wander off somewhere, getting lost deep within his own thoughts.

Now this case in particular was precisely strange. Some odd cases of assassination have been taking place around the past few days, yet to his own surprise, he had been told that said cases did not share a single common factor within them, they all presented different clues, and even the way the victims were put down differed one from another.

That was, of course, what he had been told by other detectives.

Raising his gaze to meet the one of the pale man in front of him, Sherlock proceeded to let his cup of tea rest neatly on top of the table before he proceeded to handle the man the newspaper with the news about the most recent case of the murderer;

          — there’s no such thing as privacy to the all-seeing mind. granted, omniscience evades him . . . but not by much. so he lays on his back on the floor. white hair pools against the tiles there, & he finds himself grateful for the coolness of the tiles’ touch. with narrowed eyes, he flicks his finger over the screen of the phone — which, in truth, does not belong to him. there’s no such thing as privacy . . . especially for mello, when he’s left his phone in the common space of wammy’s. the screen is smudged, scratched, & shattered. near is sure that mello has thrown the phone against the floor more than once. a shard of the phone’s screen crumbles against his touch. near’s eyes narrow further — especially when he finds a draft of a message mello’s penned to L. near is sure that mello has stolen the number.

       ( text )     it’s no question who the top two candidates are for succession. i’m sending this as a demonstration of character — which you may lack & which near lacks. so i’m enclosing a draft of a report i’m writing chronicling the bb case. believe me, i can do better than this.

       near . . . is under the assumption that mello had written this draft at the dead of night. though the other is his elder . . . he has less impulse control than near. near scrolls & looks for a draft of the report in question — but mello has not attached it yet. near eyes the message again & thumbs over it so that he might send it to himself. it is unsurprising that mello has deemed him without character. his thumb slips, hits send. the text is delivered not to near himself . . . but to L. near blinks once, twice.        that’s that.

      the first time near carved wood, he cut his fingers once / twice / three times. small pinpricks — he had been reluctant to get up to retrieve a bandage or tissue or to rinse the wound. so, he had instead pressed his fingers against the waxy paper of his nearest deck of cards. it stained them, & he didn’t care. near has gotten better at carving since then. his touch is delicate, precise, patient. but  — near doesn’t mind the artistry of the crude. he can build cities from dice & paper  …  this is something different.

       the toys are ritual. a process of thought. they help him think, & they lead his fingers step by step through trains of thought. the wheels of the motorized train rattle & whistle on the track. near presses himself onto his stomach to watch its progress. his cheek touches against the floor, & the corners of his lips twist upwards for a fraction of a second. here embodied in his crude art are four patterns of thought.

meme  /  accepting

                   ❝ N - NO REASON ! ❞ he leaps off the second he’s discovered , landing swiftly on his feet . there’s no way in hell he was about to admit he couldn’t reach the top shelf of the cupboards without doing so . ❝ MIND YOUR damn business , will ya ? ❞