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Title: The Long Lullaby
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Author Notes: An experiment: Take Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, add Sherlock, and then see what comes out.

Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

Only discreet vigilance teams visit with any regularity John Watson's tomb.

I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

His enemy and his brother fight a silent war around Baker Street, the one trying to get cocaine through its doors, the other attempting to prevent this; this goes on for hours before either of them learns that the place is empty.

The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

Even sociopaths pay attention to the homeless, when any of them could be a dangerous enemy plotting his revenge.

A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

He's no longer a virgin; regarding this, his only regret is that Moriarty will not be the first person he will have killed.

I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

There isn't less crime, but there's less of the unreported and unsolvable kind — to those in the know, this is the loud report of a ruthless war.

Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

They know he's out there, and some of what he's doing, but neither of them can quite figure out what for, and if either of them were capable of fear, they would.

O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

Three tall, thin, and dark-haired new "players" through Europe are killed in one single night of bloody precaution in which Moriarty had ordered the death of all four.

I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

Mycroft suspects as a matter of course the veracity of everything he reads or hears, but he misses the simpler times when he didn't need to factor in the possibility of his brother trying to use him.

When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

It's not that Moriarty is failing more often; but he's failing in a pattern not of his own, and although his empire grows, he knows he's being cornered.

At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

Moriarty's knighthood is tacitly understood as a lure to Sherlock, but the only sign of him is the Queen's whisper on Sir Moriarty's ears "He says 'not yet'."

He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

Nobody knows where he lives, but he never leaves it. The only screams at night are his own.

The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

A shot is heard from inside the mansion, and then there's the feeling of two people leaving the place.

It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

A doctor and a soldier. Drugs to make Moriarty paranoid and insaner, and a service gun to give him a way out. Lying next to John's tomb on the cold ground, Sherlock smiles for the first time in years as he drifts himself to sleep.


( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
Jan. 4th, 2012 07:08 pm (UTC)
Jan. 4th, 2012 07:27 pm (UTC)
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )


cass, can you not

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