This is where I began
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The only evidence remaining is the expression on his face. Now he remembers it was different from his usual scowl of disgust at the utter dullness of the whole human race – with the exception of John of course. In fact it’s the expression that immediately crops up in his mind at the thought of Daddy’s face. A look of quiet benevolent fondness, not cast around without discrimination but almost always there while looking at his mother, Mycroft, himself.
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- Part 1 of This is where I began
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Sherlock doesn’t understand why the coffin has to be so big, the little pieces would easily fit in a much smaller coffin and he wonders how they can be sure the shreds lying in the coffin are actually parts of Daddy. Suppose there is a piece of Mr Norton lying there in the coffin as well, or Mr Percy-Fitz or Miss Lewis, the other people that were blown up together with Daddy?
Series
- Part 2 of This is where I began
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The need for something stronger to reduce the blurry whirlwind of emotions raging through him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes makes him grit his teeth. He’d sell his kingdom for some horse right now to dull the anger and pathetic loneliness clouding his brain. Better to feel nothing, nothing at all than to feel this, this… He’s not going to, of course. He’s not stupid. But oh, this poisonous gauze he’s wrapped in, permeating through the pores of his skin to eat away at his insides. It’s hateful, this loss of control over himself.
Series
- Part 3 of This is where I began
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Before Sherlock can protest Mrs Hudson switches on the telly, and begins fussing with the tea set. He watches the opening credits with a scowl on his face and can feel it deepening when the story starts to unfold, all nostalgia for fake jolly old England.
Series
- Part 4 of This is where I began
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Two days after arriving in London he first spotted a camera. His mind had instantly flown back to that dull hour whiled away in Mycroft’s office, crumbling biscuits on the Chesterfield and leafing through Mr Boothby’s tedious prose lauding the merits of surveillance. Behind each of those cameras he imagines Mycroft with his eye fixed to the lens in a perpetual search for Sherlock’s face amidst the seething cesspool of humanity spilling across London’s streets day in day out
Series
- Part 5 of This is where I began